Eating Life Raw.

Traveling To Someplace Else

2012-02-26T06:14:00.008-08:00

As most of you know I lost my father-in-law on the 23rd of February. There's really nothing we can say or do when somebody we love dies. We must adjust and move on. This is life. And miraculously we do move on, putting one shaky foot in front of the other until we're someplace else.

I've resurrected this post on mortality. It seems appropriate in light of recent events. It is my attempt at moving forward while embracing a great loss. I hope you enjoy it.

I’ve been contemplating my own mortality lately, which I blame on a run of unexpected deaths within my small tribe of family and friends. Since the beginning of time people have come and gone. It’s as natural as the sun, and the air, yet it still seems utterly barbaric to me; particularly the way some of us die.

Truth really is stranger than fiction, and if I were to write a book about a planet where people mysteriously disappear, without a trace… forever, it would be considered science fiction. Yet, this is our reality.

Nobody really knows where we all go when we die. I like believing in heaven, no more tears, like that baby shampoo, but I’m rather clueless as to what heaven really means. I comfort friends when they lose somebody, telling them how natural this cycle is, but I’m ashamed to admit that on the inside I’m really relieved that it wasn’t me or my loved one.

This dying thing is totally unnerving.

The young seem nonchalant about death. Of course their bodies are still under warranty, needing just fuel and tires to operate smoothly, but my warranty has long since expired, and each morning I suspiciously eye my body in the mirror, hoping it will get me where I need to go for the day.

Some people live with death in mind, taking their vitamins, and avoiding the proverbial cracks in the road of life. Others dive in and tempt fate, trying such stunts as bungee jumping, swimming with sharks, or online dating. Me…. I defy death in my own timid way; like ordering the double mocha-choka latte in lieu of the skinny one.

My mother used to tell me that I was put here in order to learn how to trust God, love others, (including mean people) and love myself. Good answers. But when I’m lying awake at 2 am, rehearsing an argument that I will never have with my neighbor, because his dog won’t stop barking, these answers seem irritatingly cliché.

Why go through so much trouble learning all of these lessons if I’m not going to use them for long?

Perhaps I’ll be using my acquired wisdom in some place more evolved? A heavenly place not contaminated with the rage of hate, or selfish indifference. A place where acceptance is not based on appearance, or wealth, and love is spread generously, like butter on bread, and shared with every hungry soul.

Our planet is awe-inspiring. It’s alive with creatures that move to a set rhythm, working toward the common goal of survival. When I see a tiny humming bird hovering at a bloom, carefully navigating a sip of nectar, it moves me to tears.

I’m fascinated at the nervous hesitancy of a gray squirrel approaching an open field, cautiously surveying the danger level, and then running like hell with its tail all wild and fluffy, until it’s safe again in the refuge of a great tree.

All of these things speak to me about the cycle of life. I often feel superior to the creation around me; perhaps because I can walk on two legs and have the ability to use hand tools, but in reality, I am small, and I must follow the same natural laws as the squirrel and the humming bird.

Right now it is my turn to walk this planet and then the next generation shall replace me. My footprints will fade as the tide of years washes over them, but I believe that my spirit will venture onward, strengthened by the harsh lessons of this journey, walking an unknown road to a distant land which some have named heaven.

While I'm here I want to live big, and from my heart, so that in the end I can smile and say, “I’m ready for my next journey.”

Omniscient Soul Mate

2012-02-23T11:11:00.004-08:00

Closing your eyes for what seems like a moment, you awaken to find that you’ve been transported… carried across a timeless threshold and placed in the arms of an embracing light. This white-hot love, pulsing with the intensity of a thousand suns, slices through the tender folds of your failing heart, releasing your captive soul from its fleshy cage. You surrender, smitten, oblivious to the waning world as it loosens its boney grip from your life.

“Where am I?” You ask, timidly engaging this omniscient soul mate.
Whispered answers nourish your hungry spirit.

It’s incomprehensible, this euphoric passage, yet you assimilate effortlessly, being drawn in deeper, immersed in a drenching love that awakens you to your true essence.

Your focused eyes sparkle with clarity, finally open to the breathless truth. You remember this place, and weep with joy at having found your way home.

Spirit and soul join hands, creating a perfect circle of love.

It is a new day.

Dedicated to my father-in-law, Griff, who made his journey home today, February 23, 2012.

We miss you all ready Dad.

History of Mardi Gras YTT

2012-02-21T06:40:00.006-08:00

Josh from It’s Tiger Time invented You Tube Tuesday so we could each share one video a week which we found to be fun, inspiring or otherwise noteworthy. If you choose to participate, don't forget to leave your links in my comments section (so I can come visit you) and on Josh's page (so you can be part of the contest). I hope you like this week's selection!

Calamity Becomes Art

2012-02-16T08:39:00.015-08:00

Lately most of my blog entries have been a bit on esoteric side, clouded and shrouded, meant to only reveal a shadow. I do this when my life gets complicated and answers evade me. I receive great comfort from the pillowy protection that prose, metaphors and poetry offers me. I could live there forever if allowed, but I’m not allowed, and I must come out from behind the mist on occasion and do a little show and tell.

I am currently on the brink of realizing an important part of my dream with the upcoming publication of my novel, Cosette’s Tribe. The seeds of this dream were planted when I was a child living out a nightmare. Of course I wasn’t aware of my dream then, after all I was just a child. And besides, I was too busy trying to survive, dodging monsters in between games of hopscotch, and seeking out safe habitats on the fringes of society. But throughout my life I always had a certain sense that there was something important that I needed to do.

As I matured I aspired to become a writer; one with the ability to inspire people whose childhoods read like pulp fiction. I wanted to speak to those little kids living in adult’s bodies, the ones who still find it difficult to raise their heavy heads off their desks, lift their muted voices above their classmate’s, and move forward, far away from their fear and shame.

I’ve had to live through many years of lessons in order to reach the point where my calamity became my art, and my staggered footsteps a trail… a way out. When I look back at my life and I ask myself what I have to offer, I see my path transformed by life’s alchemy into a golden river, which is so pure that it pours out of me and finds form within the hearts that receive it. I have me. Leah. And I am enough.

Sometimes the closer we get to realizing a dream the harder the journey becomes. I was intimidated at the prospect of having to navigate the unknown realms of self-publication. I love to write, but I hadn’t planned on becoming a publisher. My life in general has become a bit complicated over the past year, and then with the added pressure of self-publishing I became discouraged, which led me into a phase of stagnation and fear.

I know from experience that I can only gain understanding as I move forward, and that perfection is a lie invented by fear to inspire inferiority and paralysis. So, today I’m embracing all the things that I don’t understand about publishing my first novel, including all the technical things that tie my stomach into knots.

I’m also facing all the emotional issues that seek to derail me: fear of failure, fear of success, people’s reactions and my shyness. These are but heavy chains meant to keep my dreams earthbound. Dreams have wings you know; they need to fly. So, today I am giving my dreams wings by embracing the amazing journey of self-publication and following wherever it may lead me.

My job is to do the work required in order to set my dream soaring. Where it goes from there is entirely out of my hands.

On another note, I was recently honored by a fellow blogger with The Irresistibly Sweet Blog Award. At the time I was buried in work and worry and unable to offer appropriate thanks for this honor. So, without further ado, I want to thank J.P. Lane of All Dressed Up for this sweet honor. I encourage you all to drop by and visit her!

This video never ceases to inspire me.

Paint Your Soul Red

2012-02-12T14:37:00.001-08:00

Young Girl Defending Herself Against Eros. William-Adolphe Bougrereau.

Contemplating Cupid, whose aim is often askew, uniting the most unlikely sorts, and making me question his credibility altogether; I must say that I continue to be a fan of love and still retain the infectious wounds inflicted from his arrows. Yes, I said wounds, for having dated many; my heart has been pierced more than once.

Love is a messy thing, interrupting lives and overthrowing hearts before the unsuspecting pair has a chance to gird their tender loins. Of course not all loins are tender, and love need not be reserved for the young, for love has long arms and reaches far into the future, holding dear the subject of adoration well past the time of noticing skunky streaks whitening the temples and creases brought on by life’s bloody combats… and welcomed comedies.

Fair maidens become fair ladies, well versed in the art of love and irony, and lads become lords with heavy feet and aching backs from life’s long ride. The love itself knows no difference between maiden and lady, or lad and lord, for love stands tall within the soul that sought the love and carried it thus far.

If you were struck blind, how then would you measure your lover’s fairness?
For beauty and eyes both fade, but love abides in the timeless heart.
Youth’s brief kiss will soon be forgotten.
And what then?
Fret not, for you need only close your eyes to see that fairest love whose familiar heart calls you to the center of the universe, where one’s eyes measure nothing, and love, that steamy art, paints your soul red.

Don't Answer it!

2012-02-05T13:32:00.000-08:00

She looks at the caller ID readout, hesitant to answer, for one never knows what waits on the other end of a ringing telephone, particularly a call from a blocked number. Her stomach becomes involved in the decision of whether to answer, lurching with each ring, reaching up through her throat for the cell phone. Her mind joins in, curious and sharp. “It could be something important,” she whispers, unaware that she had whispered at all, and that her entire being was conspiring against her.

Magical thinking has sometimes resulted in disaster for her, yet at other times proven to be a fruitful path. “Perhaps it’s an agent wanting my manuscript, or a serendipitous call offering me employment in some thrilling location.”

Her hope rises, teasing her anemic life, inspiring it to beg for a morsel of something delicious, releasing all of the impatience and discouragement that she’d, up till this point, managed to keep under control, and ushering them to the foot tapping forefront.

Her pulse beats out an exciting tempo. Like a disoriented fly banging itself against a closed window, she’s become ensnared between the endless horizon and the suffocating banality of the uneventful.

She answers. “Hello.” Waiting for a clue, perhaps a familiar voice. But what ensues is a long pause initiating the recorded message of a telemarketer, plunging a dagger into the heart of her fragile fantasy.

She disconnects, staring at the small rectangular device, a device capable of crawling inside her head, and drawing a crowd. Tossing it onto the bed she grins at her own foolishness, and says, “Okay, move along. There’s nothing to see here.”

There'll be Fireworks Tonight

2012-01-30T06:16:00.000-08:00

A rushing red river, currents twisting, raging through my head; speaking in phlegmy android echoes. How strange.

It’s a day better than others, a cream puff by the shore, where little dogs draw crowds, and laughter tips the scales. There’ll be fireworks tonight.

This river flushes through me, cyclic, with primitive beats, redundant.

Forget the river. Eat your cream puff, and flirt with the sun. This day by the salty sea is yours. This place you call home. Where you spend your days spinning gold and your evenings dancing with ghosts.

Thoughts steer the river’s currents, undetermined, for thoughts have hearts, and hearts do fret, and legs run blindly, beset by hearts that jump into rivers and drown.

Will I perish in this river?

Your fate is within you, destiny’s DNA, tainted by time. Yes you will die.

An apple, polished with poison, or perhaps washed with saint’s tears, cleansed for the eating. Will you partake?

Yes.

Listen to the sea. The river may own your body but the sea is your soul.

There’ll be fireworks tonight, and you know how you love fireworks.

Life Personified

2012-01-23T16:06:00.000-08:00

A friend recently commented on my habit of personifying things. At first I wasn’t sure what he meant so I looked it up on dictionary.com: “per·son·i·fi·ca·tio [per-son-uh-fi-key-shuh n] noun, the attribution of a personal nature or character to inanimate objects or abstract notions.”
He was right. I’ve been doing a lot of that lately. I think I do it because life has become so big and scary that humanizing things brings life down to my level.

Living in a world where, amongst other things, loved ones suddenly depart to the “other side,” unable to at least send us a postcard on what’s waiting for us there, can be quite unnerving. So, I talk to life as though it were human, slapping back when it pisses me off, arguing with it when it seems unfair, and dancing with it down the middle of my road. Weird? Maybe. But giving life brown eyes and a New England accent certainly demystifies it.

Personification transforms death into a likable dude saddled with a really crappy job. Summer, becomes a barefoot playmate, eating cherry Popsicles, and writing love letters in the sand. Old age becomes my treasured grandmother, with a twinkle in her eye, and a lifetime of wisdom to share. Fear, becomes a friend that I can count on to alert me to danger. But I’ve also found him to be a loud-mouthed bully, exaggerating facts and stirring up rumors. It’s always a crapshoot with fear, so it’s best to get to know him really well so that you’ll be able to tell when he’s lying to you.

I’m not alone in my need for personification. The ancient cultures did it all the time. The Chinese, Greeks, Celtics, Norse, Romans, and Japanese loved to put faces on everything. I was particularly impressed with the endless list of Chinese gods. Among them were the god of wine, wages, and sexual delights.

I assume the god of wine has a red nose and an air of snobbery about him, and the god of wages looks like a union boss chewing on a cigar as he counts out a wad of cash. The god of sexual delights is probably part male and female, having all the parts and knowing all the right moves.

The book of Proverbs calls wisdom a woman. A captain addresses his ship as a she. To a writer a blank sheet of paper can become either a heckler or an inspiring lover, depending on the day.

So, in my life the moon is a poet, worry is a coward, fear is a liar, and love is a hopeless romantic who dances barefoot across a bed of hot coals.

My Chihuahua has a voice; she’s a shifty 4 pounder who whispers to get my attention, and follows me around like a spy. She sees everything that I do and if she could actually speak I’m afraid I would probably have to kill her because she knows way too much!

Beware of Dumbass Choices

2012-01-16T09:49:00.000-08:00

So, today I’m just going to ramble on about what ever. I just deleted an entire page of writing and it felt amazing. It was as though I was God and I was erasing a paragraph in Genesis that I felt was a little wordy. Okay maybe that’s a bit heady, how about deleting a rainy day or a traffic jam. Wouldn’t it be great if we could do that in real life? Erase the crap.

“Oh hey! This sucks, I think I’ll delete it.” PRESTO! Suddenly the sun is shining again, and the traffic parts for you like the Red Sea.

Sometimes I think I spend half of my life trying to avoid mistakes. That and dodging long-winded people in grocery lines; I’m a magnet for the socially starved. Unfortunately life isn’t a keyboard and bad choices are a lot like tattoos; initially it’s fun picking out the design, but then one must face the needles, risk of infection, and the reality of waking up for the rest of your life with an eternal doodle on your favorite body part. I’m not saying that tattoos are bad but they are indelible and I think if we had to get a tattoo each time we made a choice we would be a lot more cautious with our decision making.

Lets say for each good choice we make we would be given a Master Artist like Michelangelo to design and engrave the tattoo, but for each foolish choice we make we would be given, Bronson, (who I will introduce you to shortly) or be forced to give ourselves a tattoo (with the wrong hand).

First you have the major tattoos (choices). The ones you commit an important body part to. Getting married or having kids are examples of major tattoos. These are the ones you’re most proud of, unless of course the marriage is bad, and then you might want to refer back to paragraph one on deleting the crap, which of course is impossible. Wearing a long sleeve shirt might help but most people get the marriage tattoo on their faces, that being the most important body part. Pancake make-up might hide it a little but eventually most people wind up paying a fortune to have their marriage tattoos removed.

Next you have the embarrassing tattoos (choices). These are the choices you made in haste, or when you were drunk, tired, depressed, impressed or simply pressed. These tattoos were done by an artist (and I use that term loosely) named, Bronson, with whiskey breath and hands the size of honey-glazed hams. Of course you’re so toasted that Bronson looks competent and like-able, so you agree to let him doodle a charming Chinese symbol on the base of your spine that’s supposed to say Wisdom, but it really says, Dumbass. So now you’re stuck with Dumbass inked on the base of your spine and you’ll be forever tugging your shirt down over it and praying that nobody reads Chinese.

Finally we have the little tattoos (choices). The ones you almost need a microscope to find. The ladies choice is usually a heart the size of a Spaghetti-O on the ankle and for the men we have the ever-popular Love inked on the knuckles. These are usually self-inflicted during the turbulent teens… And ugly! I have two of such tattoos, but thankfully they are so tiny that nobody ever notices them.

Each day we make dozens of small choices, which seem insignificant at the time, but over a lifetime they often become the foundation for our larger choices. This is why it’s important to be wise with all the choices that we make because in the end our lives can either reflect the beauty of the Sistine Chapel or a Men’s room wall. “For a good time call…"

The moral of this blog is quite simple. One mustn’t doodle on oneself.

Blog Awards Dogs and YTT

2012-01-08T06:13:00.001-08:00

Today I want to thank Karen Wojcik Berner of Bibliophilic Blather for the Versatile Blogger Award. Karen is the author of a wonderful book entitled A Whisper to a Scream which is the first in I believe a six book series. Karen’s an amazing lady and very supportive of the writing community.

I must admit, I’m honored, but I usually avoid accepting these awards because they require me to do two very difficult things. One is to figure out how to link to it, and the other is that in return I have to choose five other recipients for the award and I’m the type who wants to spread the love and give everyone an award. So, if you’ve given me an award in the past, and I never posted it, then it’s simply because I’m a dummy and not because I’m not thoroughly honored.

With that said, I’ve decided to put on my big girl panties today and follow through with the stipulations on this award. I see by the rules that I have to post seven things that you don’t know about me so here goes.

1. When I walk I listen to music on my iPhone and adjust my walk to the rhythm of each song… sway, sway, bounce, skip;)

2. I always wanted to be a blues singer, wear a slinky black dress, and sprawl myself across a Grand Piano.

3. I intend to take tango lessons… preferably by an angry dark-eyed Spaniard.

4. I cannot have any stimulus other than instrumental music playing when I write. I get distracted very easily and wind up dancing instead of writing.

5. I love it when silvery sunbeams escape from behind the clouds and create a God Sky. I believe that it’s a sign from beyond telling me that I’m not alone and that everything is just as it should be.

6. I always wanted to live in an old house on the beach with natural woodwork, a fireplace, large windows, walls of bookcases, and a porch with hanging potted plants. Oh, and a swing so I can sit there after a long days work and ponder everything.

7. I just adopted a Chihuahua puppy and she’s so wild that I had to hand her over to my daughter for training. I fear she may be too much for me and that she might end up like Fenton. (See video at bottom of post.)

Now for the most difficult part: passing this award on to only five recipients. Here are some of my favorites blogs. I could have easily gone on and on with my favorite cooking blog, movie blog, photography blog etc. etc. but alas the rules are the rules. So, in no particular order here are some wonderful blogs that I would like to pass this award on to:

http://www.healingmorning.blogspot.com ~ Healing Morning~ Dawn, for her generous spirit and light giving words.

http://www.mypoetcharm.blogspot.com ~ My Poet Charm ~ Andy, because your words melt my heart.

http://www.paintedpath.org ~Painted Path~ Julia for her boundless creativity and enthusiastic love for everything.

http://www.suburbansoliloquy.com ~Suburban Soliloquy~ Jayne, for her beautiful writing; her ability to see things in a most unique way, and for turning me on to amazing music.

http://www.rockthekasbahafrica.blogspot.com ~Rock The Kasbah~ Marie, for mixing things up, making me smile, and taking me traveling with her.

http://www.writingwhilethericeboils.blogspot.com ~Writing While The Rice Boils~ Debbie, for generously sharing so many important facts on the craft of writing.

www.bloomtopia.org ~Bloomtopia~ Brooke, for her gut wrenching honesty, insight and boldness of spirit.

I see that I’ve broken a rule already and chose seven instead of five blogs. Oh well… I’m going to break them even further too by stating that if you received this award today... you do not have to post this on your blog, or follow any of the other rules, if you don’t want to. It doesn’t matter as long as you know that I think you are all fabulous! Oh… and it took me three days to put this post together. That top picture is me trying to figure this thing out. I never could get the links to work (except for Karen's) so simply copy and paste the urls in your browser or check the blog list on the side of my blog for a link. I believe they are all there except Andy's. For some reason unknown to me I can't find him on the blogs I'm following to list him there. THREE DAYS! LOL!! Duh duh duh;)

Thank you Karen! *grin

You Tube Tuesday, adopted from Josh at http://www.itstigertime.blogspot.com ~ It’s Tiger Time is a day set aside for sharing your favorite video. Feel free to join in each week and see how creative we bloggers can be. Each month, Josh will highlight a selected video and present the winner with the 'You Tube Tuesday' Award. If you participate, remember to leave your You Tube Tuesday link in the Linky Tool at Its Tiger Time. And remember, your video doesn't necessarily have to be from You Tube, it can be any video.

This is what I fear my little dog's fate might be if we don't snap her into shape;)

Facing The New Year

2012-01-03T07:31:00.000-08:00

The New Year gives me the same sensation that I used to get walking out of the confessional on a gorgeous Saturday afternoon and enjoying the uplifting (howbeit temporary) sensation of having a soul as spotless as a downy white baby seal. Of course by Monday afternoon my soul would look more like a dirty Dalmatian dodging Animal Control.

I’ve been pondering some resolutions for 2012, but I haven’t made any commitments. It seems I have a bad track record with huge statements made in public meant to pressure me into making changes. Of course there’s a whole slew of us spewing off at the mouth at this time of the year so nobody really pays much attention to who is keeping their resolutions and who isn’t. I always seem to keep track of my resolutions though, and I feel the heart curling shame they inflict on my conscience when I don’t keep them. So, this year I ain’t making any!

Suffice it to say that I am going to try really hard to focus on what really matters instead of standing in front of the mirror and pulling on my face to see what I’d look like with a face-lift.

I want to focus more on the things that I need to do to in order to take better care of myself. I believe that on the inside of us we have all of the tools that we need in order to live an amazing life. I want to be like one of those all-in-one miracle pocketknives that they advertise at 3:00 a.m. on those late night shopping networks with those loud mouth announcers bragging; “That’s right folks, it screws, hammers, saws, measures, levels, opens cans, makes keys, starts your car, and adjusts the firmness of your mattress!”

That about sums it up. I have no fancy words or strategies for success. I figure if I focus on this one thing the rest will simply fall into place… including my face;)

Rumors of Pleasure

2011-12-26T09:41:00.000-08:00

Christmas has come, and although her birthday has passed, her perfume still lingers. The tree and trimmings seem a bit rumpled, like a lover waking after a stirring night of romance. Her slightly tousled branches inspire rumors of pleasure; tinsel litters the floors, scattered like clothing tossed during a playful striptease… candy canes on the lampshade. Oh my!

She tells me that she’ll be leaving soon. I cry a little and then I try convincing her to stay, but in my heart I know that it wouldn’t work; after all, how could I concentrate on my job with her traipsing around the place sidetracking me with her surprises and singing. I’d get nothing done. No, she must go.

She likes to withdraw slowly, toning down her voice, until, without noticing, I go through an entire day of jingle-stopping silence; that’s when I realize that she has really gone.

I predict it will be the same this year; Christmas will fade like a full moon eclipsed by New Year’s towering shadows. I’ll run to and fro, as energized as a Double Choka-lotta Espresso, plotting and planning my entire year; creating my own light, showing off a bit, and maybe bragging some too.

But as the cycle continues, and 2012 comes to a close, once again I’ll begin to tire of my routine. Perhaps I’ll lose some confidence on those cold winter nights when time nips at my carefully mapped calendar, threatening the demise of my fragile hopes and dreams.

It is then that I will listen for the faint sound of bells ringing in the chilly distance; that mirthful voice of Christmas calling for me to make all things ready, for her faithful visit is nearing and she carries with her the comforting gifts of love and light.

Thank you Christmas, for inspiring me to be my best. Although I try to hold you closely throughout the year; I already miss you and I can’t help but count the days till your return.

Unwrapping Christmas

2011-12-22T04:26:00.000-08:00

I posted this piece a year ago when I had few readers, so I thought it would be nice to sort of repeat myself by reposting some thoughts on the holiday. Enjoy;)

People all over the world are preparing for Christmas 2011. Holiday specials tug at the heartstrings, while citizens race to the post office, eager to mail their last minute tidings. The rich, wrapped in cashmere and Gucci, sip from crystal goblets, thankful for another successful year. The poor, cocooned in worn parkers, and hand-knit scarves, toast with tumblers of spiked eggnog; inspiring hope for an even better year.

Lighted trees sit center stage in penthouse, and row house alike, circled with a wreath of festively wrapped gifts. Stockings stretched with candy and loot send a shot of excitement to little eyes; proof positive that Santa really exists. But these are only a slice of what the season represents. Love Joy, and Peace… these are the true golden rings of the holiday.

Christmas stimulates our senses, fanning the flames of hope after a long year of indifference and struggle. Some say that Christmas brings out the hypocrites. Folks go to church that wouldn’t normally attend, and give to the poor instead of visiting the pub. But I don’t think it’s hypocritical any more than it was hypocritical for Scrooge to give Bob Cratchit a fatted goose. People are simply responding from the heart; from a place of nobility that lies buried beneath the have to’s and pressures of every day life.

Wedding songs and funeral hymns harmonize with the jingles bells in a messy world that slows for no one, reminding us that Christmas is not the absence of troubles but the presence of hope. I guess you could say that Christmas is life dressed in her Sunday best.

I'm wishing all of my readers a holiday season wrapped in love and magic. Remember that you are the gift that the world is waiting for; God's own hands come down to earth.
Love & Hugs,
Leah

Happy Holidays Enlightened Earth Mates

2011-12-14T16:46:00.000-08:00

I’m writing this blog surrounded by twinkling tree lights, Rudolph-red bows, and jingly songs. These are the treasures that I’ve taken out of storage for the holidays, and like a good set of china, I’ve added a few new pieces this year for future generations to enjoy. I love decorating for the season!

For me Christmas evokes a certain glow, which is impossible to purchase with a credit card, and is as priceless as an infant’s first smile. It’s an inner glow, born amidst life’s golden moments and untimely tragedies, burning white hot through the dross of wasted time and producing a hope so pure that it carries me away to a place inside of myself; a large place, where I sense my alliance with eternity.

It awakens me to the magic of who I am, a sister god placed on earth for a season to spark love, inspire faith, and use my heart and hands to lovingly nudge other pilgrims along. It may sound lofty but in reality it’s quite ordinary and practical.

I remember when I was about four, my mother decided to read the story of The Nativity to me. Ma was an enthusiastic storyteller and made a point of stressing that Baby Jesus had no crib or blanket. I guess she was trying to help me realize how blessed that I was. It worked because my little girl imagination was right there in the huddle with the sheep, camels, and angels, peering over at the shivering infant. This vision disturbed me so much that later that evening I pulled the blanket from my bed and knelt before my bedroom window, focusing on the brightest star, and tearfully offered my blanket to Mary. Hours later my mother discovered me fast asleep on the floor cuddled into my blanket.

I recall the desperate feeling of wanting to keep Baby Jesus warm, and rewrite his story so that it had a happier ending. I didn’t realize then that my feelings of goodwill where inspired by my kinship with divinity, and that the true gifts of Christmas were those of love and kindness.

Perhaps Christmas is a reminder to us of why we’re here, representing life on a higher level, and teaching us that it is never too late to rewrite our own stories or inspire the stories of those around us.

Whether you celebrate Christmas, Chanukah, Kwanzaa, or ignore the season all together, the one thing that we all have in common is that we are here on earth together and the best gift that we have to offer each other is that of ourselves.

Happy holidays enlightened earth mates; may the gift of your presence inspire joy to all who meet you, and may your cup overflow with the blessing of knowing exactly who you are.

Wake up Some Happiness!

2011-12-11T08:30:00.000-08:00

I was browsing through some old posts and decided to resurrect this one because of its timely message.

The above song shook me up....in a good way. It inspired me to contemplate, and pursue, happiness in a very conscious way. What better time of year to seek happiness than at Christmas time when everything is decked and festive?

Sometimes life can become predictable and boring, and you have to take life off the shelf and give it a shake or two, like a snow globe, and stir up some excitement.

I have a bad habit of waiting for life to hand me happiness. Like a hungry beggar I stand with my little heart wide open, hoping that life will give me a handout. But it rarely does. Some people stay this way for years, lamenting their misery and blaming bad luck, or the world, for their lack of happiness.

My mother used to say, “You have to make your own happiness Leah.” Then she would patiently steer me into a direction of amusement by providing me with a piece of fabric and a needle and thread, or a box of Crayola’s and a sheet of clean white paper. Within minutes I’d be happily engrossed in my project as time swept swiftly by.

I guess I’m equating happiness with happenings, unlike joy, which I consider a more spiritual attribute. Happiness pacifies the flesh and mind, while joy comforts the spirit. The Christian mystic, Madame Guyon, said, “It’s better to engage in a mindless hobby than to entertain a spirit of melancholy.” Basically it’s the same message my mother gave me so many years ago. So now that I’m grown….well mostly, I know that I am responsible for creating my own amusements and happiness’s. If I’m miserable and bored it’s my own damn fault.

Today, make a plan for happiness. Go out of your way to find it. Think outside of your stuffy little life box; call an old friend, watch your favorite movie, or try something new like skydiving, or acting. Do the thing you have always wanted to do, but never had the courage to try.

Don’t wait for somebody else to make you happy. They’re all too busy trying to figure out their own plan. The path to happiness is yours to find and follow. So, make yourself up a batch of happiness. With all the ingredients available to you, there’s no end to the possibilities.

Curmudgeons Love Cake Too!

2011-12-07T16:03:00.000-08:00

When I close my eyes I feel the same, certainly not 55, or even 45, or 35…I feel like me. Like I’ve always felt. The passage of time is a slippery illusion, for we know that the all-present “now” is what really exists. It’s all that has ever existed. Yet, life has housed me in a body that has somehow been snared by gravity, time’s very real shadow.

Simply put, our bodies were born to die, hence the crow’s feet perched at the corners of my smiling eyes, the stiffness in my knees, and my aversion to amusement park rides that spin…I still love rollercoasters!

Of course why we die is a great mystery to be revealed once we arrive on the other side of the invisible curtain, so while we’re here we philosophize, taking studied guesses at where we’ve come from and where we’re going.

I started where life birthed me, with all the blessings and nightmares of a classic novel, and I moved forward, one blood-churning step at a time. It all seemed so difficult back then, yet there was undeniable beauty there too; breath hitching, all encompassing, nail biting, rapturous beauty. And here I am now, with my life etched on my heart, the hieroglyphics of Leah, the story of a girl, now a woman, but with that same girl’s heart, still walking that bridge through the fog, not knowing what lies on the other side, yet migrating forward under life’s curious spell.

But today is my birthday; a personal holiday of sorts, invented by someone with a cake addiction and an obsession with age. My birthday supposedly marks the passage of time that I’ve spent walking this planet. I feel as though I’m about two thirds of the way over the bridge. Where I’ve been seems so irrelevant to me now, like last Tuesday’s lunch…who can even remember? It’s where I’m going that seems to matter the most to me.

I’m grateful for feet that love to dance, and bifocaled eyes, eager to witness the unfolding of another year. In spite of what our youth-worshipping culture may believe, I still hunger for more of everything: love, adventure, laughter, and knowledge. Age doesn’t dim the light within; it makes life’s rewards so much richer.

I didn’t invent birthdays. Actually, I’d rather forget about marking my years like an old dog peeing on a tree, and if it weren’t culturally expected of me I’d hide in my room until the day was over. Okay, enough of the curmudgeon routine, who am I kidding…I’m a sucker for cake and presents! With that said, Happy Birthday to me! (Donning pointy party hat and blowing feathered noisemaker) It’s my birthday!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Ageless Dance
The sky is changing moods, blowing calm white rivers into currents over blue, swirling into deep pools, rising against thunderous cliffs and sending the sun into exile.

I skip.

Not really.

But I have a mind to; for the wind is stirring the leaves, who thought their days had ended, yet now they believe themselves to be birds with pointed wings and focused beaks, slicing through the air like eager messengers bound to tell the tales of love.

I long to keep up with them.

But no, I reserve my energy, and watch, as my irrepressible soul twirls down the middle of the road, met by a partner who knows my steps and takes me there.

The world is watching, but no one sees, as I follow barefoot and alive.

Heaven graces us with a tango, bequeathed by wasted poets, teased by love’s eternal flame.

I’m gone.

Dip me now my darling; kiss the white line of my neck.

Your face is masked; your soul stirs me.

Leave me when the morning sings and evening takes his final bow.

Leah Griffith

Three Alarm Nonsense

2011-12-04T07:58:00.000-08:00

I just enjoyed some time away, launched like a rocket traveling at 80mph up the east coast in my daughter’s Civic, aimed at North Carolina, plugged in to iTunes while the humming vibration of hot asphalt beneath our speeding wheels lulled me into a state of blessed detachment. It was twelve hours of straight driving, which we shared, quickly stopping at random restaurants and rest areas for fast food and bathroom breaks. It’s funny how I view people when I’m on the road. Every face is that of a stranger’s, familiar in a “we live on this planet together” kind of way, yet somehow foreign, weird, or potentially dangerous.

When the world is a stranger I tend to relax more, dragging my rumpled ass into McDonalds with wind blown hair, wrinkled pants, dirty sunglasses, and a coffee stained T-shirt. Who cares what everyone thinks…I’ll never see them again.

It’s a good time to practice my assertiveness training skills, “These fries are cold!” or wear that blonde wig that I’ve been too shy to wear around the people that know me. My dominant Mediterranean genes have gifted me with a bushy unibrow, spiky black leg hairs (capable of scraping the paint off a wrought iron fence) and a healthy crop of arm fuzz long enough for braiding. Who can blame me for wanting to join the likes of Goldilocks, and Goldie Hawn, after all it’s been widely reported that blondes have more fun. I like fun. But no, I’m dark and moody; I could never sport a blonde wig and get away with it. I’d look like a buffalo in drag.

So, I’m writing about random nonsense today when I should be writing about the true meaning of Christmas or how to save Spotted Owls. It’s sort of like being at a three-alarm house fire and reporting on the parking problems caused by the fire-trucks lining the road. This type of writing has it’s place, and I can do it as well as the next guy, yet after a while there’s a certain droning sound that takes over, much like a chatty neighbor reporting on her recent gallbladder surgery…I stare and drool, pretending to listen, but my mind has traveled to a distant galaxy where I’m bungee jumping from the tail of a fiery comet, or dancing a tango across the Big Dipper with God.

I’ve never really fit in with the main stream of things, although I’ve certainly tried. I’ve edited my mouth, attire, and interests, in hopes of fitting in, but I’ve never been able to tame my thoughts. They’re as wild as the Serengeti and always seem to be getting me into trouble. Yet the older I get the less I care about fitting in and I actually enjoy being a bit different.

Where am I going with this post? I don’t know. My muse stayed behind in Savannah for a dancing convention and you’re stuck with me. Consider this my stretching exercise before my inspired performance of The Nutcracker.
Gee, it’s good to be back. I’ve missed you guys.

Curmudgeons Love Cake

2011-11-24T06:16:00.000-08:00

Who the Hell is Calling?

2011-11-19T03:45:00.000-08:00

So, it’s 4:30am and I’m typing away my thoughts to you. I actually woke up at four and tossed and turned for a bit; my mind was restless, writing random lines and veering off the straight and narrow. I pulled it back on course, a huge ship, with much too much uncharted sea, and then my phone rang.

Little dog, who was sleeping within the folds of blanketed comfort next to me, barked out a lame warning, sort of a burpy half-bark, just in case I missed the ringing, making certain that I was awake; although she herself was unwilling to respond to the pre-dawn trilling of reveille.

With a huge family and close friends peppered around the planet the last sound I want to hear in the middle of the night is that of a ringing phone. A nocturnal ring sounds more like an air raid warning, screaming of an impending blitz, so I keep my phone a safe distance from my bedroom requiring the sound to work harder to reach my ears, dulling the alarming sensation of being rung awake. But in the blank slate of morning silence the ringing easily found my ears, jarring me into a state of, who-the-hell is-calling? And I-hope-the-kids-are-alright!

There was a certain tension between connecting my feet with the morning floor and reaching the phone, that was as tautly strung as a tightrope. Practicing the art of funambulism I traveled along this rope all the way to my cell phone, keeping my eyes straight ahead lest I look over the edge and see my children in various stages of murder and mayhem crying out for dear mother to save them. “Mummy!”

Caller ID showed that my son had placed three calls to me in the last five minutes. My mind was reasoning that these were merely pocket dials that he hadn’t intended to make, but my heart was racing. I phoned him back and he answered on the second ring; a flat tire with no jack; he found the jack; no need to come, sorry for waking you Ma.

I wanted to tell him that I was relieved that he was alive! and that he can call me anytime and I’d be there…no matter what or where, and that I missed him because he’s been working so much lately and that I hate that he won’t be here for Thanksgiving because of it. I wanted to reach through the phone and hug him so closely that I’d never forget how it felt, but instead I calmly said, “Okay son; I love you.” and then I disconnected.

Insatiable Doppelganger

2011-11-14T09:48:00.000-08:00

You shrink at the feet of desperation, that excessive tyrant who pushes you into a stinking alleyway where your desires, like a gang of delinquents, are waiting to overtake you. Their anemic eyes are shadowed by lack; their greedy hands rifle through your pockets, turning them inside out onto the filthy ground. Angry at finding nothing they demand everything…the sun, the moon, passion's pulsing lifeblood that feeds your lean soul.

You cower at their grandiose demands until you’re but a thread of a person; a deflated worm desperately inching your way below …to that familiar hole, moist with the rotting remains of what might have been and needs to be. Your isolation cocoons you; binding you in Havishamian veils tattered by time and choked expectations.

Living underground, where blindness inspires introspection and melancholy morphs into madness, you cut a deal with the traffickers of delusion and hysteria…those needy street kids who blame you for their lot. Casting crumbs, they scramble for the loot, skinny hands and knobby knees colliding, rumbling like malnourished Crypts vying for turf and dominance.

You’re astounded with their naivety, and feel foolish for being afraid, for believing their threats. You wonder how you came to such a state, becoming an insatiable doppelganger, craving the universe, yet blind to the nonpareil treasures gifted to you by life; winking like stars in the know, silently waiting for your appreciation…as you dwell in the dust, languishing in an empty hole.

Tucked in and Tamed

2011-11-10T07:27:00.000-08:00

I’m inside here…somewhere. My stream of consciousness is as deep as the eyes of God and as shallow as the peppery dust on a city sidewalk.

I study the things that move around me; big things and pointy things; things which are totally out of my control. Some drop downwards like the guilty eyes of Judas, and fly upwards like the surprised soul of the newly dead.

Other things rise faithfully, like the sun on a wintry morning; all silvery white with promise, yet without enough heat to thaw fear’s frozen grip from my pale throat.

And then there are other things that randomly appear, a rainbow on the tail end of a storm, a glad omen, dressed in candy stripes, like a parade flag heralding happiness. I like these the best. Happy rabbit trails with tea parties and grinning kittens.

I keep myself inside myself, tucked in and tamed. I dream from this place and hunt and love. My body obeys my commands, a nod of assurance to move forward and take the risk, or to draw back and RUN! Sometimes I dare myself to dance like a sweaty harlot or prompt myself to pray like Mother Theresa with her bony hands tangled into a holy knot.

I wonder at all of it, the thoughts, the emotions, the dreams, and drawbacks. I wonder at my choices; for I’m not exempt from surprising myself, disappointing myself, and scaring the shit out of myself.

The day is long with ruminations and labor, the night with its epiphanies and nightmares. Who can say what a thought amounts to, or how far a word can go…and this body!

My consciousness is wavy, like the heat that rises at high noon from a tire-flattened carcass in Death Valley, and its content is invisible to all. I speak therefore I hide. I hide therefore I speak. I am not my mind. I am not my words. I am not my body. I am.

It's On!

2011-11-08T06:00:00.000-08:00

It’s a pretty day for living and I’m ready to take the stage. I’ve been quite sick for over a week now, but I believe today is different. The fog has lifted and my body feels like its old self again. I’m no longer aware that I have lungs. One needn’t feel their lungs, or their heart, throat, and ribs. These things should remain silent throughout the day, quietly attending to their tasks.

So I feel well, and I have a beautiful day at my disposal. It’s a working day for me but my job is often so pleasurable that I don’t even consider it work. I look at it as living. It wasn’t always so. I realize that I’m blessed right now. Poor. But Blessed.

My oldest daughter and I have a bit of a debate going on. She insists that my writing isn’t really work because I’m not being paid for it…yet. I tried to explain to her that one day I would be getting paid for the books that I pen right now. It’s a lot like a cabinet maker who spends months building a grand piece of furniture. Is he being paid for that piece as he builds it? No. But once it’s complete he will place it in his shop and wait for the right customer to come along…and then he will get paid.

She didn’t buy my argument and was dogging me; basically trying to get me to admit that I’m a contented slacker engaged in a happy hobby. Okay, she didn’t call me a slacker…but she implied it.

All of my life I’ve worked at various jobs. I’ve been an office worker, waitress, and factory worker. I’ve sold cars, candles, and Christmas decorations. I’ve been in human services for over a decade and spent the last three years of my life living away from home like a soldier. So now, thanks to a very supportive husband, I’ve been given the opportunity to work at what I love. I don’t know how long it will last but I intend to enjoy this gift and use my time wisely.

I shouldn’t let my daughter push my buttons. She got me so upset yesterday that I threatened to disinherit her. She simply rolled her eyes…seeing that my most valuable asset to date is the antibiotics prescription that I just got filled.

You wait and see kiddo! Someday I’ll be cruising on the Caribbean, with my good children, gorging on shrimp and cream puffs, while you’re clocking out for lunch and eating your words!

Be nice to Mummy. *grin

Out of Control

2011-11-03T04:50:00.000-07:00

The eagle had landed; her rolling talons gripped the Florida tarmac, screeching while grabbing hold of the spinning earth. I held my breath for a brief moment; tucked snuggly between my two gentlemen seatmates. I got to chat to both of them although they never acknowledged each other. I was the female partition between two alpha males, which made me wonder if they didn’t speak because there was some sort of macho competition going on (although that’s hard to imagine seeing I had been up since 2:00am and looked like a rumpled pigeon) or were they just being shy. Either way they served in taking my mind off my cold and the last dragging miles of a very long journey.

My husband and I had gone to Massachusetts to visit family. This is where we both grew up and it had been nearly seven years since our last visit. My in-laws have been migrating to Florida each winter for the last eleven years, so we’ve been enjoying our annual visits with them in the Sunshine State. This visit was different. You see my father-in-law is fighting cancer, and had recently started his chemo treatments. I don’t need to remind you of the long and complicated list of side effects that chemo can cause. My father-in-law was steadfastly engaged in fighting off these pharmacological assaults on all fronts.

It took two stays in the hospital to get these renegade side effects under control. During which time his family stayed closely by his side. I’ve been a part of this family for over thirty three years, and feel every bit a daughter, but there was a little wiggle room in there where I could observe the family and witness the culmination of a lifetime of love being devotedly ministered in a ten by ten foot hospital room. The synchronicity was natural, a step ahead of verbal cues, flowing from hearts motivated by love. It was amazing.

I was acutely aware of the loss of control involved in dealing with such a serious illness, loss of control for the one fighting the illness, and for the family at his side. There is a certain raw tension that pulls at the heart when someone you love is in distress, a fight or flight impulse, only there is nobody to fight and no place to run. One must simply deal…and trust. My father-in-law flowed within this reality; teaching his family how to be brave and vulnerable all at once.

I watched my mother-in-law wrestle with this reality as she also dealt with the ever-changing necessities of daily living. These demands seemed red-hot with urgency, as though the burner had been turned to high requiring her to keep a constant eye on the pot.

There were a few intense moments along the way but the one which sits fresh in my mind was that freak October Nor’easter! We had to drive to the airport in white-out conditions. With each gust of wind, the autumn leaves, acting like cupped hands full of snow, would pummel our windshield with snowballs. It was like being ambushed by a mob of unruly school boys.

Having finally made it to the airport we were notified that our flight had been cancelled. Okay, I called before we left and the airlines had assured us that, short of four feet of snow falling, there was no way in hell that they were going to cancel our flight. Hmpf!!! ^%$$#@$^%$!!!

So, we set off, once again, through the blinding snows, and building drifts, dodging nervous drivers, and deadly limbs, all the way back to suburbia. There was no control to be had when facing Mother Nature’s fury. I had to be brave and vulnerable…just like my father-in-law.

I couldn’t wait to get back to the warmth and safety of the family home, contently snuggled into my bed, sipping on hot tea while watching something mindlessly entertaining on television. This is where the needle scratches across the record…………….!!!!!!!!!!! There would be no TV watching, tea drinking, or warm cuddling because there was no power!

We had no car, although even if we had it would have done us no good. We had no heat or lights. We had nothing. I felt the prickly feet of fear marching through my constricted arteries like an army of spiders wearing spiky golf shoes. You can always count on fear, being of an opportunistic and maniacal nature, to be the first on the scene during any crisis.

I quietly lay beneath the covers, listening to the wind whistle through the trees, praying that none of the oversized oaks that stand sentinel around my in-law’s small ranch would fall and crush us. I also mourned the loss of morning coffee, a hot shower, and the Florida sunshine that, had we caught our flight, I would be basking in on the morrow.

I awoke to the chill of the morning with bright sunshine sneaking in through the sides of the bedroom shades; its soft lemony stripes crisscrossed my blanket, making me wonder if the snowstorm had been a bad dream. My icy nose told me otherwise, so I quickly dressed and made my way to the nearest window.

As Juliet said to Romeo, “Ah me,” having found no suitable words in the King’s English to otherwise describe the inexplicable joy and rapture of being in love. The view had stolen my breath away, transporting me to a place where I was neither cold nor afraid. I could only stare in awestruck wonder as the scene somehow compensated for the disruptive nature of the storm.

Using my cell, we borrowed a car and swiftly made our way through our Rockwellian neighborhood to the nearest McDonald’s. The line was incredibly long but we waited with unflinching patience enjoying the blowing warmth of the car heater.

When we returned to the house Mikes’ mom was sitting in her chair enjoying the snowy view. Handing her a mug full of coffee, she eagerly wrapped her cold hands around it, and sipped at the hot liquid. I watched her, wrapped in a blanket like an ancient seer, calmly enjoying her modern breakfast in spite of all that seemed to be falling apart around her. She could control none of it…and she was at peace with this knowledge.

I doubt my mother-in-law realizes how loudly this display of stoic acceptance spoke to me. Each time I look at her photograph I fill up with emotion.

This trip has taught me a lot. It taught me how control is but an illusion, and how love, the most powerful of forces, somehow makes up for our lack of control. It also taught me that no matter how old we are there are still lessons to learn and that some of the toughest lessons may visit us in the winter of our lives. I still have so much to learn but of one thing I’m certain; I’m incredibly honored to call my in-laws Mum and Dad.

Helpful Ghosts

2011-10-26T13:13:00.000-07:00

Being back in my home-town has given me the strangest sensation; it’s like entering a time machine and meeting my past…face-to-face. I sense an eagerness to explore the dark quarters, the condemned haunts that I occupied when I led my life by raw instincts, and wisdom was a dusty book kept on a high shelf...well out of the reach of my small hands.

Up until now my home town has played host to a legion of ghosts and phantoms, resurrecting ancient fears, and sorrows…casting their exaggerated shadows across my history, leaving me shivering from the damp chill of their opened graves. I carried the heaviness of their corpses with me throughout my life…their stench reminding me of the murder of my innocence.

I was four years old when I made the most disastrous of life choices, unwittingly wandering from the safety of the Yellow Brick Road into the Forbidden Forest. A child shouldn’t have such power; but being a tyke doesn’t exclude you from the laws of free will, or protect you from the degenerate hands of society. Nothing will ever change that fateful day when I decided to move left, instead of right; it has had far reaching consequences.

I expected to confront the same dark spirits on this visit, but instead I’m being greeted by new ghosts, venerable Caspers, with gentle voices and warm hands. I welcome their assistance…while also remaining guarded, waiting for the chafing pain of childhood traumas to return; those familiar rubbings like ill fitting shoes. But it never comes. The pain has somehow evaporated, leaving a center of silence so acute that my body is buzzing with the sweet nothingness of its presence.

Little Leah’s ghost looks radiant and with high-spirited enthusiasm she wants to show me everything: the wall where she spent endless hours observing the world and waiting for life to bring her important answers. Amazingly the wall is still there, its structure stoically fixed like a tombstone defying the seasons. I sit my aged ass down, noticing the cold hard surface, fidgeting for comfort, and remembering how I used to sit for hours on this hard spot rather than returning to the desolate nothingness at home. No matter the weather I would sit, waiting for something to do, perhaps a friend would return home and invite me to share their happiness for a while.

I adjust my position and notice that from where I’m sitting I have a perfect view into Joanne J’s old apartment window. Suddenly she’s jumping on her bed, doing her Go-Go routine to Mony Mony. Sitting cross-legged on the hard wood floor I’m her sole audience member. Joanne is wearing white fish net stockings, black vinyl boots, and a yellow baby-doll pajama top. Her breasts are full for twelve years old. I’m wearing an oversized nighty. My breast buds barely cause a rise in the pink flannel gown. I’m jealous of all her jiggling and I grin when her mother comes in and snaps at her to put some clothes on.

I smile with this memory, still noticing the absence of pain. It’s as though the swelling and redness have gone out of my past leaving me to enjoy the subtle nuances of my youth...a luxury that I’m unfamiliar with.

Tipping my head back I look up through the golden leaves of a hovering maple and inhale deeply. For the first time I can say that I actually love the vibe of this place. This is where I resourcefully used paper clips and bubble gum to hold my cracked shield together. I fought off dragons with that shield. I was brave and kind. I had no way of knowing that the brooding darkness of my childhood was indeed a pressurized incubation chamber which would produce the future diamonds of my essence. It has made me who I am.

As they say, “All’s well…” But a part of me still wants to look into that kid’s courageous brown eyes and reassure her. I want to tell her that no matter how bad things may seem everything is just as it should be. And then it hits me…I just did.

Treasure Haunting

2011-10-21T04:05:00.000-07:00

Today I’m packing my bags and heading back to my home town of Worcester Massachusetts for a week. I left there in 1989 with my husband and children, and although I’ve returned for the occasional visit; I miss it. This is where my history began and the people who I shared that history with still lives. My mind is bulging with all sorts of thoughts and expectations.

I’m working on my second novel and I’m hoping to do some research of sorts…go on a crawl through the old neighborhood and perhaps catch a glimpse of my younger self along the way. I’ll visit the places where my first this or that happened. I have this feeling that there is something waiting for me there, something spiritual, or perhaps an answer to a mystery…a revealing of sorts. I don’t know, but I’ll keep myself open.

It’s funny how going back to your home town has the power to transport you back to your childhood. Even though my mother and grandmother have long since transitioned to the other side I can still sense their presence there. It’s like an old movie reel flickering against that wrinkled sheet on the wall, stirring a pot of memories, releasing the aroma of all those yesterdays and carrying you away with them.

I’m thrilled to be returning in the autumn when the trees blush with radiance, setting fire to the landscape, and the air is crispy clean. This will certainly conjure some of my favorite memories of Halloween in the city. Back in the day when we toted a pillowcase and people handed out life-sized candy bars. We pillaged our three-decker community until our sacks were full and our legs were achy from climbing all those stairs.

So, I’ll probably be a bit busy for this next week, but I’ll be checking in with you. I’m leaving you with a poem, although I am definitely not a poet, but I’m doing this in honor of my friend Roy, author of Roy’s Garage Sale, who is sponsoring a Poe-a-tree-hop
and it just so happens that this month’s theme is “Home is where…” If you would like to participate jump in and be sure to leave your link at Roy’s site on his linky tool so that we can all enjoy your contribution.

Trick or Treating

Witches on brooms, haunting the sky
While spiky black cats stand in fright mode
Jack-o-lanterns aglow, there is mischief about
As the beggars push out for their pay loads

Sweaty masks hide, the fear in their eyes
As they tread through the darkness with giggles
Apparitions delight, in the juvenile fright
While their mothers hold onto their fingers

Bags weighed down, with chocolate and yums
Their reward for an evening of pleading
They have braved the dark night, swallowed their fright
And will never forget trick or treating

Now What?

2011-10-19T07:44:00.000-07:00

For years I’ve been trying to train myself on how to live in the Now. But lately, between Oprah’s Life Classes and Eckhart Tolle’s books, plus the fact that my life seems to be coming unglued on a consistent basis, I have a new sense of urgency about it. It all sounds so enlightening, and yogilicious! Unless of course you’re the type of person who has allowed your mind and emotions pretty much free reign…then you’re in trouble.

The mind is like the older sister with a big ego reading the rules off the game box; knowing that her kid sister can’t read she adds a few rules of her own, to give herself an edge. The emotions are the little sister. She believes everything the literate older sister tells her and blindly follows her rules. These two engage in the game of life, with the dominate mind bullying the emotions. The result is a power struggle between two brats, neither of which is capable of running the show. The Now is the patient parent waiting for the two to exhaust themselves.

Being in the Now wouldn’t seem so difficult if it wasn’t so quiet. Why does Now have to seem so….um…boring? You know what I mean. Right now my left calf aches, and my chipped coffee cup is on the table. I can see the hairs on my arms…and I feel restless…like I want to do something. Something stimulating and exciting. Ooops! I’m doing it again…projecting into the future. Of course this makes me feel guilty so I reel myself in, as disappointed as a kid leaving his favorite fishing spot, and tell myself that if the Now is where I’m meant to live then I had better learn to enjoy it.

I sit up a little straighter and inhale deeply, hoping to invoke my inner Being. My eyes fall upon a pile of mail sitting on the counter: bills, ads, and a Netflix envelope. What movie was it that I ordered? FOCUS LEAH!!

I try again, this time keeping my eyes closed. I’m here. Now. I can hear the clock ticking; time is pinching its way into my meditative bubble. It must be at least ten by now. My mind races to the shopping list of chores waiting for my attention. I feel the prickle of my Inner Critic’s breath on my neck…she’s getting ready to speak. “You need to clean this messy house, and then take care of all those tax forms...”

She’s a bossy bitch with a tight bun and shiny shoes. I ignore her demands, staying seated in the Now, but she’s ruined the mood. I can feel her words decaying, and squirming around in my stomach like worms.

Emotions but no thoughts? Thoughts, but fighting emotions? How do I get in the now? I’m starting to sweat…STOP!!!!!!!!!! Try again.

Back to the Now; within the rhythm of my pulse and the swallowing of my spit. The nitty gritty Now, where my mind paces within the confines of my skull, seeking an escape into the universe with its yawning jaw waiting to swallow the Twinkies, and the brooding mountains staying put, needing to lose weight, guarding their secrets; the showy oceans frothy with pride, flirting with the mailman and overwhelming the edges of my soul; the treetops with their messy hair, a covering to the thirsty earth; the earth, moist soil, grassy hills needing mowing, and thorn-choked fields, strangling their way through life. Taking what isn’t theirs, I need to get that book back to the library, killing the weak, yet growing towards the light all the same.

Huh? What the hell was that? Was that the Now, my mind/ego, or my emotions? Oh snap! This being in the Now stuff is like trying to bottle a breeze. Perhaps I’m trying too hard. Anyway, that coffee smells awfully good, and I still have a good hour left to sit and enjoy myself with my writing before I have to move on to my chores. I love being here in my house with my coffee, my words…and myself. It’s as though nothing else exists.

Life is good.

Eating Life Raw - You Tube Tuesday

2011-10-18T06:26:00.000-07:00

I'm doing something a little different today. I've decided to participate in You Tube Tuesday, adopted from Josh at It’s Tiger Time This is a day set aside for sharing your favorite video. Feel free to join in each week and see how creative we bloggers can be. Please remember to leave your link on his site in the linky-tool so that we can all visit your blog. Each month, Josh will highlight a selected video and present the winner with the 'You Tube Tuesday' Award.

Enjoy this weeks timeless selection by Van Morrison and the photo of me surrounded by my adoring fans. Hmmmm...which should I dance with?

Hiding in a Paragraph

2011-10-15T18:12:00.000-07:00

Cover Art by Fran Murphy

I just published my 100th Blog post this week. Looking over my one hundred entries I noticed that I’ve written on scores of subjects, yet I don’t believe that I’ve ever written on the subject of writing. I guess I’ve sort of kept this topic tucked away. It’s something so personal that I tend to keep it to myself...forgetting that it’s a viable topic. I think about it all the time; probably as much as a devoted mother does her only child. Writing is always with me. So, today I intend to share some of my thoughts on writing.

Words are the expression of our souls. We speak of the things that live inside of us: our hopes, fears, dreams and passions. We often write about sensitive things…topics that we may find hard to talk about. We hide our feelings in our paragraphs like spies seeking a way to communicate--without really speaking. It’s as though by writing we create a safe distance between our feelings and our selves…a cushion of sorts.

As writers we have an immeasurable palette of colorful words and an endless supply of white paper canvases on which to create our soul paintings…this is our art.

I write because it allows me the freedom of expression without the hesitancy of the tongue…that nervousness that arises when it’s my turn to speak. I have so much to say but I’ve never been completely comfortable with the stage. Writing provides me with a stress-free stage from which to speak.

I write to figure things out. Solve the mysteries of my life. When I’m tied in a knot, and confounded, I write with reckless abandon; tearing away at my inhibitions like an erotic stripper, until I’m running naked and free, and smiling at the intimate beauty of it all.

I write because I am a full vessel whose contents have communal value. In order to remain full I must pour myself out; imparting to partake. I do this with honesty, passion and fear; showing my nakedness to the world in order for the world to embrace its own nakedness.

I don’t write for an agent’s approval or for monetary rewards. If these come I will joyfully accept them as the fruit of my labor; I don’t need them in order to validate my work. My work validates itself.

These days there is a lot of agitation in the publishing industry. Between e-pubs and a sinking economy, agents are desperately searching for that “sure thing”, and are very reluctant to take on new authors. Although frustrating, this needn’t be a negative thing. It simply is what it is. I believe that if the writing is good, then in time, the work will rise to the top…like cream.

As writers, we are the ones whose art provides publishers, agents, and a number of others with a living. These days it seems everyone is fighting for a piece of the literary pie. We now have the tools to publish our own works. We needn’t wait countless years for the approval of an agent.

My novel, Cosette’s Tribe, in spite of numerous queries and a recent literary award, still sits like a demure debutante waiting for a suitor. She needn’t wait forever, after all she’s in her prime…and ready to dance. It just might be time for mother to take things into her own capable hands. I certainly don’t intend to shelf a manuscript that took me years to create because of the greed and indifference of a desperate industry. I will lovingly present her to the world on my terms and let the readers decide her fate for themselves. Readers do have the discernment to choose what they like in spite of what the publishers may think.

If you would like to read the first two chapters of Cosette’s Tribe simply click on the link entitled “The Blotter Literary Magazine” at the top right hand side of my blog. It might take a couple of minutes to load, so go grab yourself a drink and then come back and meet my firstborn, Cosette. Her story starts on page 4.

Soaring Hearts

2011-10-12T07:37:00.000-07:00

I began my Tuesday in the usual manner, picking up a client, (who is more like a friend) and then heading out together to run errands and maybe dig up some fun. It was a blue-domed day with wispy white clouds …a perfect jigsaw puzzle sky.

We chatted as we headed to our first appointment, or I should say that I chatted while she remained silent and somewhat somber looking. Being the consummate cheerleader I asked “What’s shaking lady?” to which she replied, “Momma died two years ago today.” I watched as her lower lip quivered, cuing the tears. “I’m sorry.” I said, handing her a napkin from the glove box, and then turning down the radio.

I remember her mother, a ferociously private woman, devoted to the care of her developmentally disabled daughter, and her duties as a nurse. I used to enjoy the challenge of engaging her in conversation, always hungry for the reward of watching her face light up as she spoke about the things that she loved: her God, her family, and her work. You never would have guessed that she was engaged in the battle of her life against breast cancer. I have no memory of her ever mentioning it or complaining about feeling ill. She was an incredibly brave woman.

“We have to do something to honor her memory.” I said, hoping for some inspiration, a Band-Aid to put on my friend’s wounded heart. “We can do balloons.” She suggested, with a hint of a smile. So balloons it was. We drove to the Dollar Store and picked up two beautiful heart shaped balloons; she insisted I get one for my mom too. We then drove to the beach, where the sky is wide open and the dependable gulf breeze could carry our hearts high up to heaven.

Standing on the pier in silence, she held onto the balloons which were now dancing in the wind, straining against their leashes like two eager pups ready for a romp in the park.

Speaking softly, as though not wanting to disturb the other occupants of heaven, she began, “Hi mom, I really miss you. I know that you’re in heaven so I’m sending you a balloon so you’ll remember how much I love you. God, I love you too; please take care of my Momma.” Her face softened; she had made contact. I then took my turn, now made easy by my friend’s willingness to go first.

Unwinding the strings from her hand she released the balloons. Our two hearts soared up higher and higher, as though answering a call to go home. Squinting into the sky we waited, smiling…until they magically disappeared from our view forever.

Warts Wrong With You?

2011-10-08T14:19:00.000-07:00

I was thinking about genuine beauty the other day, and how, being human, we all have imperfections, or as some call them...warts. Yet it’s those very warts that we’ve been taught to despise that can often be endearing…even charming. I had a boyfriend once who had a thin scar across his top lip. Instead of viewing this as a flaw, I saw it as sexy as hell, giving him a bad boy persona which sent shivers down my spine. Unfortunately our society has trained us to hide our warts…to be ashamed of them.

There are different categories of warts; some are really obvious because they appear on the outside of us, like: extra pounds, crooked teeth, wrinkles, and birth marks. We nip, suction, bleach, and snip at our imperfections hoping to come as close to perfect as possible. But is all this really necessary? I think that we’re missing out on appreciating what makes us unique. Since when did beauty marks turn into moles? I have one on my back that’s a dead ringer for W.C. Fields that I’ve been dying to show off!

Our society worships beauty and youth. Get a look at any magazine cover and you’ll see them praising the gorgeous and humiliating the homely. Of course these beauties, whose faces shine with glossy perfection from their supermarket marquees, inspiring us to feel plainer than unbuttered toast, have all been Photo-Shopped from the top of their shiny foreheads all the way down to their bumpy bottoms.

We humans have been around for like a gazillion years battling zits, dental decay, wrinkles, and finally succumbing to death, so you’d think by now we would have learned how to embrace our imperfections. But no, instead we worship youth and beauty…what most of us don’t have, and none of us can keep. Duh! What kind of message are we sending to our kids?

Now for the other type of wart that many of us wrestle with; it is officially known as the Fatigo Wart, but most of us are more familiar with its common street name, the worry wart. Worry warts are the most versatile of warts in that they cover just about anything which may, or may not, go wrong in our lives. They cause us to worry about everything from the apocalypse to bankruptcy, foreclosure to insanity, then onwards to unemployment and finally zymosis (which ironically is the development and spread of an infectious disease caused by a fungus).

Worry warts reside between our ears and have the power to scare the ever loving crap out of us without anything bad ever actually happening. One sign that your young child might have worry warts is if he/she has a preoccupation with the Boogie Man. In teenagers symptoms may manifest themselves in paranoid feelings that nobody likes them, which in turn may lead to body piercing, filthy bedrooms, and excessive back talking.

Worry warts are harder to detect in adults. By this age most people have found clever ways to camouflage the symptoms until they honestly believe that they don’t have them any more. Here is a little check list to see if you might be infected with worry warts. Have you found yourself:

1. Returning home just to check if you locked the door.
2. Spending outrageous amounts of energy trying to please everybody.
3. Stockpiling food for the end times.
4. Repeatedly asking your friends if they’re mad at you.
5. Running background checks on all of your neighbors.

Although worry warts are among the most common of fungi, and the most simple to treat, millions of people still suffer from their effects. If you happen to be one of these people, don’t worry…oops! My bad;)

Anyway, I did a little bit of research so that I could give you an easy to follow plan on how to cure your worry warts. This is what I’ve come up with.

A. Believe in the good stuff instead of the bad stuff; it requires the same amount of energy.
B. Live happily ever after.

Join me next time folks when I will be lecturing on tape worm infestation and how it impacts the fashion industry.

ELR accepts no liability for the consequences of any actions taken on the basis of the information provided, unless that information is subsequently confirmed in blood on October 31st at 1313 Mockingbird Lane. Although ELR has taken reasonable precautions to ensure no worry warts are present in this post, ELR cannot accept responsibility for any ulcers or nervous break downs arising from worry warts.

Fearless Floating

2011-10-06T05:57:00.000-07:00

Did you ever get an idea and then when you follow through with it it turns out all wrong? “Huh?” You say, screwing your face up into a confused mud puddle. You taste the soup and it’s too salty; you compare the photo to your painting and yours looks like a one dimensional rendition of cartoon meets real world. You date a dream boat only to find out that he has leaks. Not only is he not sea worthy… he’s not you worthy.

Then there are bigger choices…you choose your career based on economics and availability, or maybe you were pressured into this choice by an over bearing parent or a critical spouse. You sign up for classes, ignoring your gut which seems to be screaming “run!” and a few years later you’ve earned a framed document (worth five bucks) declaring you a “fill in the blank” specialist…something you never wanted to be. Now you’re thirty thousand dollars in debt with student loans, and depressed at the notion of spending the rest of your life doing something that drains you…when all you ever really wanted to do was train horses.

Life is full of choices, detours, and unexpected endings and sometimes no matter how careful we are things can go really screwy. This is where the flow comes in. I’m a firm believer in going with the flow. I’m not talking about having no direction. I’m talking about doing all that you can to make something happen and then putting it down. It is at this point that you jump into the river, and go with the flow.

We have limited vision; we can’t see the future; therefore we sometimes have limited dreams. Our plan may sound good, but it just might be less than what we are really capable of. Oprah is a fine example of this. She never would have dreamed that her future would unfold in such a grand manner. God had more in store for her than she had for herself. She did what she could and then she went with the flow.

Right now I’m in the flow with my first novel. I’m doing all that I can do to get it to an agent. I’ve also got some things lined up in case I choose to go with the self-publishing option; although at this moment I’m not ready to do that. There is a little voice inside of me that tries to make me feel anxious about the future of my book. Hell, my little voice doesn’t stop there; it tries to make me feel anxious about everything! But…I’m ignoring that little voice because I’m busy floating on this river.

The point I’m making is this: If life is keeping you guessing, sending you down strange alleyways, or setting up roadblocks, then there is a good chance that life is trying to communicate with you. Keep doing what you need to do, but don’t panic, and don’t push it. When you make decisions from a fearful place you just might end up selling yourself short. Breathe, dance, have a glass of wine, or take up yo-yo surfing! Do anything, but don’t jump ahead of the flow.

Man…I’m awfully teachy today. I must need to hear this stuff;)

Charred Confetti

2011-10-02T18:01:00.000-07:00

Seeking sleep; the purest form of solitary comfort and escape, you toss, becoming tangled in the bed’s wrinkled accessories, surrendering again to the feelings that direct your mind’s traffic.

It’s been a long conflicted evening. Why do the soul’s deepest queries seem to emerge at bedtime; an aphotic pop quiz, asking the toughest questions at a time when you feel the most depleted and least prepared to answer.

You check the clock and moan. Time is not cooperating; he’s dragging his heavy feet again, puttering and stalling…making you wait. You change positions; kick off the blankets. Your mind stares into itself; a smoky crystal ball conjuring a vision.

Mutinous thoughts congregate like a murder of crows on a tightrope; omens of doom with jagged wings and lethal beaks. Their focused eyes are seeded with evil; they target your most vulnerable places. You try deflecting the attack, but your shield becomes too heavy, allowing the enemy to build momentum. Your mind becomes a movie reel of madness and tragedy taking hostages and burning corpses.

Your eyes snap open. It’s difficult to breathe. Your heart feels too large for your chest; it’s beating too quickly. Is this your heart? Is this your mind? The darkness fills every space like a rising flood of dirty water.

A vibration distracts you from your morbid ruminations. Youthful laughter and the thrumming bass of a stereo pull you back to the palpable. The car passes your house and you listen as the sound slowly dissipates into the endless shadows of the nighttide. You wonder where they’re going, all jacked-up on life, plowing through your phantoms; scattering crows like charred confetti.

Facing our Fears

2011-09-27T03:19:00.000-07:00

Lately a lot of good people that I know have been getting pinned to the mat of life by some heavy trials. I’m stunned by the number of friends who are struggling in so many areas of their lives. Usually life will hit you in the wallet, or the heart, or your health. But it seems that these friends are being hit hard in multiple areas of their lives causing some to become really discouraged.

We all know that life has a cyclic rhythm, and that one day we may be sitting high on a mountain top while the next day we may find ourselves at the bottom of a very dark hole tossing ashes on our heads and cursing the day that we were born. When we’re in a dark hole we forget how amazing the mountain top was and visa versa.

I just came out of a very intense trial, where I found it hard to remember my truth. Everything seemed drained of color; being tainted with fear and hopelessness. When I was in it I couldn’t imagine being out of it. It’s like lying on the beach in July and trying to imagine a snow storm.

One of the things that I learned from this recent wrestling match with life was that the truth is always there for me to grab on to…as long as I don’t have my hands full of other stuff. This other stuff is usually fear. Fear is centered on loss and is our most formidable foe because it has the power to trigger so many emotional responses; responses like rage, jealousy, greed, pride, and even murder and suicide.

We’ve all read the headlines where some famous person, who seemed to have it all, embezzles money, screws up a great marriage, or dies in a roach infested hotel of a drug overdose, leaving us all left to wonder why. How could somebody, who seemingly had so much, come so undone? Somewhere in this person’s life they began listening to the lies of fear, telling them that who they were just wasn’t enough.

Fear likes to paralyze us so that we cease from being fruitful. It undermines our confidence and makes us doubt our gifts. You see our gifts are our weapons of love. We need them to fulfill our purpose on this earth. They enrich our lives with meaning and inspire the lives of others, lifting us high above this weary world so that we can see eternity.

I had one friend say that she felt like a fraud in her job because she felt so out of control in her own life. She said, “I’m supposed to have it all together. How can I possibly help others?” Oh really? Who has it all together? Nobody. If we had to wait to do anything until we had it all together we’d all be sitting around self-obsessing over our screwed up lives and nothing would ever get done.

I guess what I’m trying to say is this: If life has sent a renegade sumo wrestler, in need of a breath mint, and a diaper change, to kick your weary ass…don’t you dare run! It’s times like these that are known to precede the greatest victories of all. Open your hands and let go of your fears, surrender your expectations for certain outcomes and trust that the absolute best result is coming your way.

Try living one moment at a time and trust that wisdom will speak to you when important decisions need to be made. Anything more than this is delusional: a mere attempt at controlling the universe, which by the way already has a director.

You’re being here is no accident. There is a loving plan and purpose. Trust in this and your life will improve. Oh, and then pour some wine, blast some good music, and dance till you drop! What? That always helps me;)

Freak Flag Flying!

2011-09-22T19:17:00.000-07:00

One week in from quitting my job and I’ve resumed working on my new novel, renovated a closet, and worn make-up only twice. Once to go to the mall and the other time I put it on simply out of habit. I’m going to save a fortune on make-up and perfume, not to mention hair cuts. I’m now sporting a disgruntled afro and I’m torn between letting it grow out into its former unmanageable lion’s mane, complete with Pepe Le Pew streaking, or cracking the whip and taming it down to a sophisticated Judi Dench razor cut.

Actually, if I didn’t have to walk the dog in the morning I’d probably forget to brush my hair, and I’d stay in my PJ’s around the clock. Okay, that’s a bit extreme, but it amazes me how quickly I can let go of all the frilly garnishes of life; those little extras that swallow up hours of my time and money.

My husband isn’t complaining. He’s so thrilled with having me around again, to scratch his back and listen to his stories, that I could tattoo earthworms on my face and speak pig Latin with a lisp and he’d overlook it. Ours is a spiritual union.

I know that writing is a sedentary activity, so I’ve committed myself to going to the gym three times a week. I do this in order to keep myself from morphing into a giant marshmallow; although I still feel totally intimidated by all the high tech equipment (mine is a state of the art gym) and the pushy personal trainers who all but call me fatty. “I could have you down to a size three in six weeks,” they boast. Yeah, for only fifty bucks a session and a gallon of my blood. Yikes! I stay to myself, plugged into my music, and count the minutes until I can leave.

Seriously, I am extremely grateful to have this time for creativity. It’s a gift that I’d been yearning for for years, and now that it’s here I can’t imagine ever living without it. I promise not to ignore showers, waxings, and oral hygiene, but otherwise I intend to enjoy this freedom and let my freak flag fly!

Okay, I'm Awake!

2011-09-19T11:31:00.000-07:00

I had the sensation of a house falling, jolting me from my dream, and then realizing that I was safely at home.

I believe that I have just gone through one of the most agonizingly beautiful times in my recent life. I can add the word beautiful now because…well, I’m safely at home and all the scary stuff seems to be under control. But, in all sincerity, the last year has been an epic journey of crossroads and discoveries, leading me back to a simple place called home.

I can usually adjust to most of life’s changes and upsets, by talking to myself, walking, or listening to music, but none of that stuff seemed to help. I was stuck and life was in my face showing no signs of backing down.

You see, I had been telling myself some stories about what I needed in order to be happy; unconsciously turning many important things around me into enemies. What I didn’t realize was that I was the enemy. I was the one perpetrating a coup; trying to overthrow my own life, and supplant my own leadership. I know…it sounds nuts, but believe me it’s not all that uncommon. We usually are our own worse enemies.

Having become dissatisfied with the way my life was going I tried taking a short cut to getting unstuck and finding happiness. I was going to create some happiness if it killed me! Basically I was trying to live a life that really didn’t exist. I became a woman without a country, placing myself in a refugee camp, waiting to be claimed by an honorable, yet distant, relative.

Oh how anxious we become when our lives are under construction and things turn dodgy. We blindly run ahead of ourselves, grasping any tool in sight, and then we busy our hands with building babbling towers and high walls. We pry open doors that were meant to remain closed and put locks on doors that should be flung open. We doubt our truth, our minds, our paths…we may even momentarily forget who we are.

I spun out of control like a rumor on loose lips until I collided with the solid walls of reality and life knocked me on my frantic ass. And there I sat…dazed, as a circle of cartoon stars orbited my dizzy head. It was at this point that I surrendered…and waited for wisdom.

How many times have I allowed fear to take the lead?
Hmmm…too many to mention.
Will I ever learn?
I’ve learned already.

This round goes to Leah. Although I took some pretty tough punches to the head and the heart, but I got back up, trusted in myself and the divine order of things. Is the match over? Nah, it will continue as long as I have breath. I’ll become fearful, run, exhaust myself, surrender, and then find my wisdom all over again.
Are there any short cuts?
Probably not, as all along I thought I was doing pretty well; I was stunned to find myself so utterly lost.

On the bright side, I do believe that each time this happens I become more enlightened than before, and that I am that much closer to learning how to authentically live my life. I’m also looking toward a time when I can peacefully flow in that river of tranquility that all those swamis and yogis are always yapping about and finally reach perfection ;)
Of course I’m going to need life to cooperate with me on this!
*grin

Risky? You Betcha!

2011-09-16T04:20:00.000-07:00

I woke up this morning with a charged expectancy…the promise of a new beginning! I’m a little nervous, having spent the last five years with certain employment. A regular paycheck is not to be undervalued in this economy. But, when the trade off becomes too much to bear, then it’s time to take the leap and reach for something more.

I’ve spent the last three of these five years living away from home much like a soldier in the Army. This has provided me with some valuable space for reflection, creativity (I wrote Cosette’s Tribe!) and appreciation for my family. Having stepped away from my regular life I’ve seen from a distance what that life looks like, and I miss it. I miss my husband’s steady companionship and my little dog, who after three years of me being gone still greets me at the door with squeals and twirls, thinking that I’m home to stay. She’s going to very happy.

It’s the ordinary things that pad my life with meaning and it’s the routine of living side by side with my family that I crave. Existing away from these simple pleasures has made them sparkle with an enticing newness.

I have some plans for myself; some new stuff to do. Sure, I still have to make money, and I have a plan for that too, but I also have a novel to get published and another to complete. I have some new friends to make, and exciting places to go. Although my plan is a little sketchy right now, my heart is eager for this new beginning.

These days there’s been a shift in our economy…and the old ways of making a living. Gone are the days when companies provide excellent benefit packages, long-term employment, and stock incentives. Americans are finding that they must provide for themselves a security package. This package includes faith in our abilities and gifts, the boldness to strike out and pursue a dream, and the stamina to see the thing through.

So…it’s closing time. I’m packing up my belongings and saying my goodbyes. The sun has set on this chapter of my life and is rising in determined optimism on the next. Is it risky? You betcha! But the risk of missing out on that dream is far more frightening than the risk of failure. I can always get a job in my field but I may never have another chance at making my dreams come true.

“And the day came when the risk it took to stay tight in the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.” Anais Nin

My Moody Muse

2011-09-11T19:17:00.000-07:00

My muse stares from her holy perch, brooding, and fluttering; signaling me in her urgent, yet hushed way. “Yes, I’m here’” I say; meeting her where the elastic tension of my life expands and experience and emotion collide.

With those gypsy eyes of hers, I knew that we would be doing the tango and not the waltz. But her smile shines so white with sacred purpose, and the endless sea of passion that is her heart, makes it impossible for me to resist her. I love her, and have become accustom to her smoldering mood swings and reflective silences.

She’s a romantic philosopher, an ageless poet, considering the stars, and the scars, creating a sonnet of all that’s trite and true. She speaks with an honesty that’s often embarrassing, but I write it all down anyways, in fear of offending her and chasing her off to search for another channel with which to stir the world’s soul.

She’s collected the precious stones of my journey and examined each one. Fascinated with her discoveries, she gently excavates the underside of my soul…that hidden place where love and fear spoon in conflicted comfort, and my smoky dreams rise like incense in search of her blessing.

We dance in intimate darkness, and in graceful secrecy we conceive our unorthodox and brilliant children, casting them far away from ourselves forever.

We have become one, my moody muse and I, as surely as this moment is one with eternity and creativity is one with God.

Conversing With Scarecrows.

2011-09-07T19:43:00.000-07:00

Sometimes life’s familiar road unexpectedly forks, leaving one to converse with scarecrows on which direction to go. Both roads appear to be identical…equally strange, having never walked down either of these paths before, so choosing one is often as random as an impulse…I’ll go right because I’m right handed.

When you don’t know where you’re headed any road will take you there. I don’t believe it’s the road that matters so much, (when you’re traveling without a map) it's the attitude that you have about the journey that counts.

Life likes to keep secrets, rationing out clues a little bit at a time, as we reluctantly participate in the great mystery of our existence. Our direction often seems as imperceptible as our souls, as we trek along, through mountains and jungles, preoccupied with the distractions of biting insects, blistered feet, and rattle snakes.

What drives us on? I believe that it’s the innate belief that we have a purpose for being here, although we’re not always certain what it is. It seems that we tend to look outside of ourselves for hints…when in all actuality we are the purpose. Our living is our doing, and our doing is our purpose, when living a life that flows from the heart of who we truly are.

Sometimes we lose our way, pretending to be something that we’re not, following anothers’ path because we’re fearful of pushing off on our own, or we’re just plain lost. Even in these cases life is generous, using our prodigal wanderings to lead us back home to our authentic selves.

Life’s greatest questions are often answered in spite of ourselves. We stumble and grumble, unaware of the progress that we are making, and then, as if by magic, we are seated on high, receiving heaven’s revelations, toasting our successes, and bragging about the hell we had to go through to get there.

It ain’t over till it’s over, but be warned…time passes quickly. So, be bold, push forward, and be kind to yourself. Oh, and try not to forget who you are! *grin

Tumbling out of Heaven

2011-09-04T05:53:00.000-07:00

Reaching into the darkness,
Through the fragile unknown spaces,
Between seraphim and cherubim,
Locking eyes with deity,
And tumbling out of heaven.

In reaching I’ve been revived.
In wanting I’ve been repelled.
In speaking I’ve been silenced.

This is what it feels like to speak to the wind.
Blown away.
This is what it tastes like to kiss the rain.
Bittersweet.
This is what it sounds like to be cut off.
...

This path is killing me with its blood stained pages.
This path is stunning with its desperate beauty.

Living at the edge of the world,
I’ll take my chances, and live some more.
Until I see the breath of silver;
That smoldering old soul,
I’ll keep my heart open.

I found Truth in the morning clouds.
She asked me for a ride.

You're Kidding Me. Right?

2011-09-01T19:52:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I step outside of my comfort zone, like a brave explorer, and go some place totally different, and then halfway through the journey I freak out. Everything seems foreign…and frightening!

I have the sensation of one walking through a lonely desert. My tongue is parched and bleeding, I’m on my hands and knees…and I’m convinced that I’m going to die. Staring into the wavy haze, I see an oasis in the distance. I’m saved! With renewed purpose I push forward through the blistering heat, fueled by the promise of water, and blessed shade. (This is where you hear the needle drag across the record.) Huh? A freaken mirage? You’re kidding me. Right?

So it is. So it is. Stupid, stupid, me. I should have known to bring my own water, besides I have no business wandering around in the wilderness in the first place. I’ve overshot my abilities, wandered way too far out of bounds. I thought I knew the way, had been here before. Where are the palm trees, and pool of deep blue water? Of course I’ve never been here. This is definitely not the same place. Out here I’m on my own, there are no signs, or landmarks, everything looks ... sandy.

Finding my way back is impossible because the impatient wind has erased my footprints. My only choice is to keep moving and pray that I don’t go in circles, or crazy. I’ll follow the sun, that relentless and unforgiving guide, and pray that it leads me out of this wasteland.

With crinkled lesson book in hand I inch onward. Using my favorite red pen I scribble down some words: Note to Self: A lemonade stand would do well out here.

Three Weddings and a Hopeless Romantic

2011-08-29T09:08:00.000-07:00

I’ve been to three weddings so far this year. One was held at the bride’s parent’s home, a charming two-story colonial on beautiful grounds. The next was celebrated at a gorgeous venue complete with rose pedals and secret gardens, and the third, which was last weekend, was held at the Tampa Aquarium, allowing the guests private access to the attraction, which by the way was amazing. All three weddings were as unique as the couples taking the vows.

Each wedding conjured romantic images in my mind; Knights on steeds reciting eternal vows; breath-hitching kisses, leading to sleepless nights, where lovers exchange dreamy dialog... “is it the sun or the moon?” It matters not, for the bedchamber’s windows are dark with secrecy and as silent as a fortress, as the hungry darlings, reach for love’s ripened fruit, tasting and touching, pooling like blood into one liquid soul.

Ah me, always the romantic, and thankful for the tantalizing tidbits these weddings have offered; the series of infusions of what has been written of, dreamt of, and sought after by mankind since the beginning of time…epic love.

Seeing those young couple’s eyes swollen with hope; looking as vulnerable as a pair of egg yokes, with their naïve minds confident that they were going to be the couple who would never lose the fireworks, was enough to make a believer out of me. I wasn’t about to break their yokes.

Obviously they’re still on that isolated little island called “Us” which protects them from marital disasters, old age, and even death. They’re still drawing from a wishing well, where happy endings are as certain as springtime blooms, and where love never turns as ordinary as a worn pair of gym shoes.

They’ve been raised to believe in Hollywood’s love; where each story ends with a white dress, champagne, and two beautiful people wrapped in a long embrace. Funny how Hollywood doesn’t show the rest of the story...how breath-hitching passions, dreamy dialog, and juicy midnight fruit pickings eventually give way to morning breath, petty arguments, and intimacies scheduled between work shifts, diaper changes, and the flu season.

I would never tell them about the ordinary trappings of love because I believe in the spell of romance. Romantic love is like the holidays, it doesn’t show up every day but when it does come around, it feels new and exciting, dressed in glitz and gold, and shooting off fireworks capable of obscuring the moody glow of the moon and setting fire to the ocean.

It Was A Dark and Stormy Night

2011-08-26T05:22:00.000-07:00

It was a dark and stormy night. The wind screamed like a lunatic on fire, as it clawed a path of devastation through our tiny Caribbean island, leveling buildings and lives, and rearranging the face of St. Croix forever. Actually, it was the longest night of my life.

I remember the Weather Channel reports hours preceding Hurricane Hugo’s arrival, warning us to take shelter. I was making potato salad, and chatting on the phone with my friend Mary. We were coordinating our evacuation efforts. I wasn’t afraid because I had nothing to compare this too. The strongest hurricane I had ever experienced in the Northeast was a category one, named Gloria, who turned out to be nothing more than a rainy day with a name. The only reason I was evacuating was because a group of us had been invited to stay at a really cool furniture store for the hoity toity. “Bring some beer, and music!” I giggled, as I spooned potato salad into a plastic container.

There were nine of us in all at the shelter, including my six year old daughter and nine yr old son. I use the term shelter loosely as this place was luxurious and way out of my price range. Choosing a comfy corner to call home, we placed our belongings along the wall of the foyer on the marble floor, and then set out to do some snooping. This place was ridiculously expensive, small pieces of art for five thousand dollars, sofas for ten thousand. I spent most of the time telling my kids not to touch anything!

Somewhere between mid-night and the third dance, Hurricane Hugo turned ugly. I remember I had just checked on the kids, they were sleeping soundly in an office down the hall. I was starting to get nervous as the wind pulled at the plywood shielding the windows, causing the nails to squeak like rats as they were pried loose. Heading back to the foyer the building began to shake. A terrifying crash followed…along with blood curdling screams!

The one hundred and fifty foot front of this brand new building, built to sustain winds up to 200 mph, had been sucked outward, leaving only the three remaining walls to hold it up. The wind tore through our fancy shelter like a mob of looters bent on destruction.

Running for cover we hid in the bathroom, and that’s where we spent the night, waiting for the rest of building to come down on top of us. Listening, like frightened children to their parents fight, we stayed huddled together in the darkness, as the angry wind smashed everything within reach.

At dawn we emerged from our bunker shocked and disoriented; it was as though a bomb had gone off, decimating the landscape to such an extent that it was unrecognizable. Hugo had destroyed or damaged ninety percent of the buildings in St. Croix. None of us had homes to return to. But, we were alive and extremely grateful for that.

Why am I telling you this story? I’m telling it because I want everybody to take the threat of Hurricane Irene seriously, and because I know what it’s like to live in the Northeast and to have never felt the bite of a serious hurricane. So, my most precious and dear people, whom I love and can’t spare…batten down the hatches and TAKE THIS THING SERIOUSLY!!

SERIOUSLY!

I'm sending out prayers.

A Late Summer Night's Swim

2011-08-23T06:53:00.000-07:00

Turning on the submerged lighting to the swimming pool transforms the lanai into an aquatic dream. I sigh at the sight; it’s as though the Northern Lights have melted, filling my pool with a phosphorescent liquid. I slip beneath the glossy surface, feeling the cool weight of the water as it carries me deeper into itself. Ripples shimmer away from me like lucid sound waves, ebbing into oblivion. Tipping back, I surrender to my aqueous bed, staring up at the black sky and wondering at its vastness. Is there a beginning and an end?

The stars silently glisten, but I imagine if they were to make a sound it would be as whimsical as wind chimes and as holy as an angel’s sigh.

Like a stray leaf, I am floating slowly around the circumference of the pool in a world of my own, a world in-between the luminous serum which buoys me up and the dense soulfulness of the night; drifting like a cloud above my limitations. Time seems suspended as I become one with nothing, cushioned like an embryo in a sultry womb, bathetic and calm.

How is it that I’ve waited so long to enjoy this intimate tryst with myself? Have I forgotten how romantic life can be?
“Ah,” you say, “you need a man to be romantic.”
Oh do I?

Romance is a seductive ritual, reserved not only for couples, but lovers of self. I’ve stirred my infatuation with life; submerged myself in the indigenous, raising girlish goose flesh, as I gently bob without boundaries atop the magical surface of my swimming pool, witnessed only by the jeweled stars, pinned like broaches, to the August sky.

A Morning Letter for You

2011-08-21T06:24:00.000-07:00

Squinting into the angelic morning, blazing white with promise, a distant dog speaks his mind, as birds trill from camouflaged nests, and the steam rises off my coffee like a smoldering black puddle, rousing my misty spirit.

Funny how each day presents itself to us as though it were something new…an unopened letter from life delivered bedside, intended for your eyes alone, as millions of previous mornings are wiped clean like fingerprints from a crime scene.

Each day billions of souls see themselves as a world within a world, the all important protagonists of a literary novel, alone, yet surrounded by minor characters, whose influence varies like the measure of light at any given sunrise.

Perhaps a banished cave man once sat where I sit this morning, although by a tree rather than on a sunny lanai, and he thought with hieroglyphic images of his lost importance in the world as he gazed into the blond morning light, and wondered at his existence.

We are so aware of ourselves on this physical plane, as hunger drives us to feed, love, with her juicy suggestions and endless yearnings, seduces us to multiply, and then there is pain with its pointy fingers, poking and puncturing our most tender places, reminding us that we are temporary.

We’ve so much to do, kicking off the morning covers and running into ourselves on our way out, spinning like a globe on an axis of our own making. It is today again, and time…for another cup of coffee.

Living Shadows

2011-08-17T06:23:00.000-07:00

How well do we really know each other? People tend to hide their deepest thoughts, and conceal feelings that are as sharp as silver and capable of exposing the raw nerve of who they really are.

Some people will dive head first into the depths of love, and then suddenly retreat…because needing somebody makes them vulnerable and the potential for heartache is too terrifying to bear.

Other people never do much of anything…all along wishing that they had. Over the years their regrets form a filmy coating on their dreams; eventually contaminating their weary hearts with negativity and cynicism.

For some, time leaks like a rusty faucet, seemingly lasting too long while passing too quickly; staining their wide-eyed souls with chronic disappointment and numbing complacency. They have withdrawn from life, staying busy with a smattering of trivial nothingness, as they ignore a life that only they can live and the souls which only they can touch.

How well do we really know ourselves? Are we hiding from our dreams, afraid that they may never come true? Are we lying to ourselves, settling for less, because our pasts have been jaded, and to hope for something wildly wonderful is to risk experiencing more despair and loss?

Then there are those rare souls, who wax brave through adversity, and tell the truth, defiantly speaking forth the things that they need to the universe in spite of their feelings of inferiority and fear. They defy the pain, pushing forward in sweaty spurts, facing their demons and slaying their dragons, and as if by magic, serendipitous events change their paths, inspiring them to look inward for even more.

These are those who dare to love, and live, creating light in dark places, in spite of the exorbitant personal costs. These are the souls whose apathy is exonerated and whose exalted lives heal the wounds of hopelessness. They lead by resolution and their works inspire ordinary creatures to reach beyond their fears toward their own extraordinary paths.

We are each a part of the other, sharing common hopes and fears. Our eyes reflect our desperations and our aspirations. Our passions are as endless as our thoughts and as insatiable as the desert floor, yet our hearts are as different as our faces and our motives folded within our needs; ultimately our means will define our ends.

Carpe diem.

When the Chips Hit the Fan

2011-08-14T14:44:00.000-07:00

Life is like a game of poker, random numbers and faces, shuffled together in fluky sequences, dealt daily by fate, who greets me at dawn and says, “Good morning Leah, here is your hand for the day, I have only one question to ask….do you feel lucky today?”

I hold my hand close to my chest and slowly fan the cards out. Yikes! It looks dismal. But wait, is that an ace of hearts I see? I stare blankly forward, poker face in place, hoping my ace high is enough for the day and that the stakes aren’t too high.

Life is always a gamble. Hell, getting out of bed is a gamble, because the cards that we’re dealt often seem arbitrary and unalterable. It takes a certain amount of chutzpah to face each day…chutzpah and blind faith. This is why it’s so important for me to take care of myself and set things up so I have a good supply of joy. Without Joy I might find myself folding before the lunch bell tolls.

I’m a true believer that positive inner dialog is the key to enjoying a good day. Being in a happy place mentally is like building my house miles away from the edge of a cliff. When somebody, or something, comes rushing in at me it has a long way to go before it can push me over the edge.

On the other hand, if my inner dialog is negative, that’s like building my house on the edge of the cliff. When something unexpected or frightening happens it doesn’t take much to knock me over the precipice, dropping me into an abysmal place, and leaving me to crawl through the darkness in order to find my way out again.

With life’s cards often stacked against me I can’t afford to entrust my day to random twists of fate. This is where the tools that I’ve acquired over many bloody years come in handy. I’m either going to do the mental maintenance before the proverbial chips hit the fan, or after.

Remember…there are no excuses in poker, and no matter how crappy the hand, life requires us to go “all in” before our tender pink feet have a chance to hit the cold morning floor. Therefore, it’s important to keep your head and your poker face on straight.

Are jokers wild or are they just there to confuse me?

That Which I Feared

2011-08-11T05:13:00.000-07:00

That which I feared has come upon me. I have lost my wallet! Losing my wallet is akin to losing my identity, as it holds not only my driver’s license, but also my three bank cards, a variety of credit cards, important receipts, pictures, business cards, and a new book of stamps. I use my wallet like a vault for all things important to me and have never (up to this point) lost track of it. My heart is rattling against my ribs like a rabid ape trying to escape!

Stupid stupid stupid me for leaving so many important things in there!

The last time I saw it I was buying a bucket of popcorn at the movie theater. I had asked for layered butter and an extra cup for water and I could feel the folks behind me getting annoyed with me for taking so long, so instead of stuffing my wallet back into my purse, like I usually do, I crumbled under the pressure of the heavy sighing behind me and walked away with my wallet in my hand figuring I’d put it back into my pocketbook once I was seated in the theater. Somewhere between finding a place to set my buttery popcorn down and opening up my chocolaty raisenets I lost track of my precious red Gucci wallet.

That is the last memory I have of actually having possession of my wallet. I didn’t even notice it was missing until 9:30 tonight. That’s nine long hours ago.

I phoned the movie theater and explained my situation detailing the movie that I went to see (The Help, which btw was great) the time that I was there and the seat that I had sat in. The lady sounded sympathetic and told me that she would phone me back after the current movie let out. So now it’s a waiting game. I know I’ll never sleep a wink if this lady doesn’t call me back soon with good news.

They just called back and they have found my wallet! Thank God!

I’m back from the movie theater where, Vanetta, the honest and top notch theater manager, handed my wallet back to me totally intact!! Thanks for saving my ass Vanetta! Now I can sleep soundly.

Man, there’s nothing like a little drama to get your mind off of other dramas. Up until I noticed that my wallet was missing I’d been obsessing over another drama, unconsciously stirring the dramatic pot, sniffing at the different aromas, and slapping my head trying to get the crazy dramatic recipe figured out. Once I noticed that my purse was missing I forgot all about the drama pot, having an even more pertinent drama to deal with.

Lessons of the day:
Don’t carry everything you own in your wallet.
Don’t let impatient people bully you into hurrying.
Be grateful for things as they are because they could always get worse.
A stirred drama pot never settles…leave it alone!

Skittish Hat Tossing

2011-08-07T09:06:00.000-07:00

Standing out in the street and tossing my hat up into the air...watching it spin like a copter blade slicing through the blue sky, momentarily blocking out the omnipresent sun, and then dropping like a dead pigeon at my feet. Thud.

I don’t know what I was hoping for. Perhaps I was channeling Mary Richards from the classic Mary Tyler Moore Show. I can see myself, sporting a carefully planned ensemble of polyester, pleather, and wool, (complete with shiny accessories), feeling brazenly independent, and symbolically tossing my cares back to the gods, ridding myself of inhibition and stagnation.

I could be her; until the director shouts “cut!” and reality smacks me in the face. Then I’d take a big swig of black coffee, shed my New York wardrobe, scratching at all the wooly places because I’m not Little Bo Peep and only sheep and Scottish bag-pipers should wear wool, and head back to my cockroach infested flat with cold water and no heat.

Or perhaps I was giving up, tossing my hat in despair, but I chickened out half way through the toss, because quitting feels like death and I want to live forever. Actually, quitting scares me even more than death.

Then again, I may have been tossing my hat into the ring, challenging life in a no-holds-barred, pure blood and guts competition; although that doesn’t really sound like me. I’m more apt to want to be life’s best friend so she doesn’t get pissed off at me and kick my ass. Whatever it was that inspired me to toss my hat into the sky, it certainly stirred up a lot of thoughts.

For example: lately I’ve been trying to figure out a way of making some big changes in my life. It’s as though I’ve been stacking wood for years and suddenly I’ve realized that the wood on the bottom of the stack needs to be replaced with bricks. Pulling the wood from the bottom will make the entire stack crumble and all those years of stacking will be lost. So, in order to make these big changes I’m going to have to think carefully about how to go about it, take my time, and be willing to lose some of the things that I’ve been leaning on…things that seem paramount to my survival.

So, I guess I was skittishly, but officially, tossing my hat into the ring. Somebody once said, “People don’t usually change until the pain of staying the same is greater than the pain of changing.” I’m there.

More Please

2011-08-05T12:36:00.000-07:00

As I sat, pushed into a claustrophobic corner, up against a portal with its plastic eyelid half-closed, bouncing through the clouds above a quilt of civilization, a traffic jam of thoughts fought for my attention. My knees were jammed into the over sized magazine pocket in front of me, bulging like a stuffed pita with boring brochures, barf bags, and magazines dripping with banality, fit only for those sequestered into tiny places with no place else to rest their eyes.

My life was in the hands of a radio voice coming from behind a grey curtain as I rode a riveted metal bird invented years ago by dreamers. Yet, there I was, living that dream with all the enthusiasm of a commuter waiting in line at a red light. Ah me…another day of shooting over the country like a bolt of lightning emitting from the hand of Thor. The fact was, a week in Seattle just wasn’t enough.

Seattle’s landscape is seductive, with miles of curvy green hills alluringly posed along the horizon like Rembrandt’s Danae. Ragged cedars, dripping with moss, point their skeletal fingers in all directions, casting shadows and shafts of contrasting light onto the forest floor, invoking throaty visions of Stoker’s Dracula and romantic images of Lancelot and Guinevere.

And then there was Mount Rainier, regally wrapped in a white stole of glistening snow like a prominent lady whose amusement is to stand watch over her lowly subjects. Dominating the view, her beauty demands weak-kneed reverence, for as easily as she inspires worship, she also inspires fear, being one of the most dangerous volcanoes in the world.

All this splendor and yet there was more…sipping a Caramel Frappuccino, purchased for me by the generous and amazing, Isla, at the original Star Bucks, located in the Pike Place Market; lying on a park bench squinting up through a leafy curtain at the Space Needle, eating Fish & Chips at Spud’s on the waterfront while greedy seagulls as big as toddlers stood sentinel hoping for a handout. Shopping at Archie McPhee’s for eccentric anomalies such as, Instant Underpants, (just add water and wait) and Crazy Cat Lady, Cat Food Scented Soap, while laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe.

These were some of the dits and dots of my vacation. But they are only the icing, because the cake was being with my lifelong friend, Fran, after a numbing thirty nine year separation. Imagine being separated from your best friend for that long without knowing if they were dead or alive, and then being reunited in such a beautiful place as Washington. So you see, words cannot describe the richness of such a meeting, therefore, I will have to leave it to your imagination. Suffice it to say that this was an amazing journey and a part of me will forever be settled into the foothills of Mount Rainier, sitting with Fran on his porch, watching the deer feed on August apples as the sun silently slips behind a bastion of trees.

Seattle Here I Come.

2011-07-25T09:07:00.000-07:00

So, I’m heading out for Seattle on Wednesday. I’ve never been to Seattle, although I’ve heard a lot about it…rainy weather, sleeplessness, good coffee, vampire wars, tossed salad and scrambled eggs…and a very special friend of mine just happens to be waiting for me there.

It’s been nearly forty years since I last saw him and I still can’t believe that we’re going to be in the same room very shortly! I’m a little shy about this meeting because the last time we saw each other we were both sporting youthful faces. I keep looking in the mirror and pulling at my face, trying to see if I can find myself beneath all the changes.

Silly isn’t it? I mean, really. We’re all spirits living in a body. It’s our spirits that define who we are…not these ever-aging cages that we’re forced to live in while we’re here. So, I’ll do as I always do…pull on a pair of jeans and a tee-shirt, apply light make-up, spike out my hair, and hope that he still sees me ;)

Actually there is an amazing story behind our reunion; one that makes my heart trip over itself and beat triple-time. We were the closest of friends for years and then our lives took us in different directions…literally. We lost contact quickly, so all of these years we’ve been missing each other and wondering…where are you?

It’s a complex and inspiring story, but I’m going to hold off for now because I’m too excited to think straight and my words will never come close to showcasing how meaningful this reunion really is.

So, I’m off to discover Seattle with my supportive husband, and my oldest daughter (who somehow managed to wiggle her way in on the action). I don’t care if the Seattle rains fall the entire week, leaving us house-bound and soggy…I just want to be with my friend again. Pinch me!

This is Enough

2011-07-23T05:03:00.000-07:00

Life in my face.
And I thought you loved me.
Shadows...

Struggling is suffocating.
If lightning’s going to strike
running won’t save me.

Words, kissing my forehead
are not enough.
I must see for myself.

I am.
This is enough.
My truth.

Synchronic breathing.
Molecules vibrating.
Therein is peace.

Deep and Plain

2011-07-18T20:10:00.000-07:00

I had an unexpected visit from my neighbor, Addie, yesterday morning. Addie is a spry ninety one year old, who’s as thin as Olive Oyl, and can still move like a warmed up yoga instructor. Her tanned face has been stamped by time, like a well traveled passport, and when she speaks she’s a study in animation, using all available facial expressions to make her point. Addie laughs easily, with her mouth wide open, oblivious to onlookers and divinely confident. I always feel honored when Addie fits me into her day, and yesterday morning was no exception.

We sat, face to face, chatting about how she planned on using up her day. The hours seem to be more of an endurance test to Addie since her husband John died a few short weeks ago. She used to spend her days getting John his meals, driving him to appointments, and chatting with him about what ever seemed important at the time. You know how couples who have shared a long road of years together are; one starts a sentence and the other one finishes it, one has an idea, and the other was just thinking the same thing.

Now Addie answers each morning as though there were an unexpected stranger standing at her door. Foggy with sleep, she searches for John’s familiar features, and then she remembers…

Yesterday morning she was explaining how she needed to keep the same routine, do the same things that she and John had done together. She spoke, emphatically, as though she were lecturing herself on being tough, and sticking with the program. Finished with her spontaneous soliloquy, she settled back down into the loveseat, looking deflated and fragile, like a home-sewn rag doll.

I stayed silent, figuring that Addie would notice that she was visiting me, which was unusual, something she had never done when John was alive. My husband and I had always made the short trek to their house for visits because John, being 95, and sick, was too weak to visit us. I wanted to tell her to be easy on herself and that she was already finding her new path. But I remained silent.

Addie, adjusted herself in her seat, straightened her cotton blouse and then she looked over at me as if just remembering my presence. “We all have to die.” She said, in her rich Norwegian accent, “But nobody has ever come back and said, “This is how it is!” She then stood, collected her oversized pocketbook, and announced that she had to go buy some chlorine for her pool.

I love Addie. I love her stubborn strength and her little girl vulnerability. I love how she says deep things in a plain way, cutting through the pretenses and niceties. I walked her to the door, and my heart sagged a bit, as I watched Addie disappear behind the wheel of her large American car and drive bravely away into her day…without John.

Ignoring the Muse

2011-07-16T06:46:00.000-07:00

So, last week I started writing in my head. Well, actually it was longer ago than that, but last week my mental writing became so distracting that I was having a difficult time concentrating on anything else. It was like having a little movie screen in my head. At first it was easy to shut it off, but as the story deepened the more distracted I became, until finally I couldn’t concentrate on much of anything else. My brain was being commandeered by a group of fictitious characters seeking a platform on which to raise their lives.

People would ask me questions, but what I was hearing sounded more like Charlie Brown’s teacher, Miss Offmore, saying…”Waw-waw-waaw-waw-waaw-waw.” I’d have no idea what sort of answer to give…because I wasn’t listening. I was writing in my head. My oldest daughter picked up on my auto-muting first, insisting that I never listened to what she said anymore. Of course I vehemently defended myself against her charges, to which she replied, “Then you either need to get your hearing checked or your head examined.”

I finally confessed my cranial composing to a friend who casually dismissed my admission, stating that that type of writing didn’t count. At first I was a little annoyed with his comment…but deep down I knew that he was right. How arrogant of me to ignore my muse.

The next morning I opened my laptop and began typing. It was as though the words were waiting back stage for their cue, and began tap dancing across the page. I was half audience half reporter as I surrendered to the creative process and allowed writing to write, while I simply transcribed the words. My writing isn’t always this fluid, but like a crowd waiting in line for a great concert, there is always a crush of people pushing through the doors when they first open, and then the flow eventually evens out.

I’d been so busy working full-time, blogging, networking, planning, editing, and querying agents that the thought of starting a new project seemed impossible. Like a mother chasing a hyper-active toddler through the grocery store, the thought of having another one seemed totally insane. I didn’t want to give in to it…accept the responsibility. But the words wouldn’t leave me alone; they demanded to be conceived, as though they were claiming their right to life.

So please excuse my huhing, and my glazed looks. I’m not being rude. I’m watching my characters as they rehearse their performances in my mind, and then act them out on paper. I’m doing what I love, and loving what I do…and life doesn’t get much better than this.

Summer Fun. NOT!

2011-07-12T20:14:00.000-07:00

Much of the east coast is experiencing temperatures upwards of a hundred degrees this week…except Florida, which bottomed out at a nippy ninety three degrees this afternoon. It’s hot, but Florida hot and Northern hot are two different hots. In Florida we’re used to the heat and humidity. We time everything just right in order to avoid getting sweaty. We go from our air conditioned houses to our air conditioned cars and then drive said cars to our air conditioned offices and stores. We exercise early in the morning (or early in the evening) when the angry sun has lost some of its fury. Basically we’re equipped for heat waves in the same manner Northerners are equipped for blizzards.

Up north most people don’t have a/c because it costs a fortune to install and run. They reason, “Why buy it if you’re only going to use it a few times a year?” Northerners have other things to spend their hard earned cash on, like, heating fuel, snow removal, winter clothing, and frozen pipes. So, they suck it up, and sweat it out, the old skool way…

Yankees are tough, scraping tender knuckles and cursing, as they pry stubborn windows open that have been puttied shut against the cold for months. Then installing screens… with slits and holes in them, creating easy access for opportunist mosquitoes on the hunt for tender sun-burnt flesh. They then place large boxy fans in screened windows, and re-scrape their already scraped knuckles.

Bedtime is a treat on a muggy northern night, especially if you have young children. First you get to wrestle with tormented toddlers, flushed red with heat and cherry Popsicles, finally getting them down three hours past their bed time. Then, snagging a Popsicle for yourself; you collapse from fatigue in the Dora the Explorer kiddy pool in the back yard, too weak to keep the dog from joining you…or sharing your Popsicle.

You finally make your way upstairs, where the heat rises, and the mosquitoes congregate. Tossing and turning, you lie naked and vulnerable, slapping yourself in the face as you attempt to kill the mosquito that keeps buzzzzzing in your ears. You bring the sheets over your head, but your breath is like a high voltage space heater, so you come up for air…and there’s that mosquito again. Finally you kick off the sheets, hoping that the mosquito fills up quickly, turn your sweaty pillow to the “cool” side for the fiftieth time, and drop off into a dead sleep.

The morning sun blazes a sizzling hello as you leave for work. You feel ready for your day. Your coffee is hot and your favorite song is playing. The torments of summer have been temporarily forgiven. You power your windows down and sing along as you ride. Hitting the interstate you notice papers blowing around in the back seat like one of those windy money booths. You try to drive as McDonald's napkins, empty Wal-Mart bags, and old newspapers dive bomb your head. Swatting the trash away, it accidentally gets sucked out of the car window. You watch, slack jawed, from your rear-view mirror, as it hits the vehicle behind you…which just happens to be a state trooper.

These crazy days of summer memories have been brought to you by the Old Skool Air Conditioning Company. For a free estimate dial 1-800-IAM-DONE

(All quotes from [Company] are never valid as this company doesn’t exist. Our fictitious company accepts no liability for the content of this post, or for the consequences of any actions taken on the basis of the information provided, unless that information is subsequently confirmed in writing on the 6th Tuesday of July. Any views or opinions presented in this post are solely those of the ex-northerners and do not necessarily represent those of the non-company. Finally, the recipient should check this post and any attachments for the presence of mosquitoes. We accept no liability for any damage caused by any mosquitoes transmitted by this post.)

Shock and Gawk

2011-07-10T09:19:00.000-07:00

Eating Life Raw (ELR) was conceived from a genuine desire to speak with undaunted honesty about life, resulting in a cathartic release for me and hopefully an inspiring and stimulating experience for you, the reader. Lately I’ve been feeling a bit “goody-two-shoes” editing myself in order to please the agents of the world who may, or may not, be visiting ELR. I’m seeking to get my novel, Cosette’s Tribe, published, and in doing so I think I’ve omitted some of the blood and guts involved in eating life raw.

We all live on the same planet and we know that life is capable of dishing out moldy mystery meat, leaving us gagging into our napkins, while optimistically eyeing the dessert table. We’ve experienced the excitement of the hunt and the profusion of blood, the heart thumping danger and the breathtaking delight of everyday living.

Life is a messy tangled head of hair, and we’re constantly trying to comb it out so that we might look good, attract the right mate, find meaningful friendships, and secure our rightful places in the world. We whisper our desperate prayers into the darkness, waiting for a feeling, a subtle clue, that our prayers have been heard. We drag our tired asses out of bed and clock in at work, exchanging heartbeats for wages. As we work, we often dream of being elsewhere, keeping our precious heartbeats for ourselves, and spending them on the things that matter the most to us.

Of course nobody knows when their heart will stop beating so we gamble that someday, when we’ve saved up enough money, we will still have enough heartbeats remaining to live our real lives. It’s a crap shoot with major consequences. So, given the situation, why should I pussy-foot around with my words? Words are my soul’s expression. Words are the wings of my dreams. They take me on trips that I could never afford otherwise. They lift me up out of the doldrums so that I can skulk about the belfry with Quasimodo, take a magic carpet ride with Aladdin, or morph, like a shapeshifter, and “be” the chair.

Don’t worry; I’m not going off the deep end. Actually, that sounds like a lot of fun. Okay, don’t worry; I’m not going to be sharing embarrassing and personal things. Oh wait…I’ve already done that. Okay, how about this…don’t worry, this isn’t a Shock and Gawk campaign, it’s just me living my life…which, by the way, is a once in a lifetime opportunity.

Diving Naked

2011-07-09T16:00:00.000-07:00

Cutting a rose before it buds leaves you with thorns.

There will be no more abridged versions of what I need to write.
It’s a bloody mess… so it is.
A beautiful bloody mess.

If I say it on paper, holding onto myself with naked arms, and I tremble at the truth, will it kill me?
If I hold back the words, bury them like a money box, forgetting the hiding place, the shallow grave; will I ever find them again?
Do I need to?

Am I pacing like a cat in a cage, looking for my escape, because I’m in a cage, or am I outside of the cage overly empathizing with the cat?

To empty oneself of the words that gather, like a mumbling crowd at the scene of a wreck, is more frightening than the blood of disaster, and more thrilling than a naked dive off a waterfall.

Ain’t it just like life to lead you on?

Ain’t it just like life to surprise you?

In My Hands

2011-07-06T08:10:00.000-07:00

I remember carrying the tiny gray bird home, his frantic heart beating wildly against my careful hands. I’d found him in a field tucked between two tenements when I was playing army with the neighborhood boys. I was designated as the nurse even though I could handle a stick gun as good as the next guy.

I’m not sure what type of bird it was but I knew it was a baby because of its scrawny neck, too thin to support his wobbling head, and his scant feathering. His squawks were watery, as though he were complaining through a gargle, and his beak, outlined in emergency-yellow lip liner, opened in hopeful anticipation each time I tried to pet his head. It may have been a girl bird but in my mind he was a bland gray boy.

I tried to hide my new pet from my mother, but as the evening wore on, and the chick’s protests grew louder, I knew that I needed some advice on what to feed him. I had placed him in a shoebox on a bed of toilet paper. My cat, Fluffy, stayed close by, showing a great deal of interest in the unfolding drama.

Ma instructed me to get some worms. “They eat thrown-up worms.” She said, like it was a well known fact. Ma was a treasure trove of facts, but to my little girl mind thrown-up worms had to be the most disgusting thing in the world to eat. Yuck! Ma equipped me with an empty coffee can and a flash light and sent me, and my little brother Michael, out into the dark yard to catch some night crawlers.

Michael was an ace worm catcher …and squisher. I, on the other hand, couldn’t bear to watch him grind the wiggling worms between two stones, and felt he was cruel for doing it. Looking back now I can see that he wasn’t cruel at all but willing to do my dirty work for me.

I faithfully administered the putrid pabulum with an eyedropper, coming home when the springtime sun was still high in the sky, and the streets were abuzz with the excited shouts of school pals. I named the bird, Buddy, on account of him being my new best friend.

I awoke Monday morning to a startling silence. Pulling the shoebox from beneath my bed I found Buddy lying within a shroud of toilet tissue, his demanding beak still, his somber eyes closed. He had lasted five days away from his nest.

Years later my mother admitted that she knew all along that Buddy was going to die, but she wanted to teach me about compassion and responsibility toward the helpless. Buddy was one of many strays sheltered over the years at our apartment. My mother welcomed anybody in need, and whenever I got judgmental about someone’s situation she would say, “Be careful Leah, there are lots of ways for babies to get separated from their nests.”

I never forgot her words.

Imagining John's Independence Day

2011-07-02T14:18:00.000-07:00

I sat at John’s bedside; his face was graveyard gray, and sagging like the worn planks of a condemned house. In his youth John was a capable navigator for the Royal Dutch Navy. It was 1940, and John was home for a short furlough with his parents when the German army tore the front doors from the hinges of his sleepy village. It was a home invasion of massive proportions, disrupting checker games, and Sunday suppers, trampling well-tended lives underfoot, and stripping away the healthy flesh from a civilized society.

John was driven underground by Hitler’s minions, living in a hand-dug cave beneath his parents’ home. He hid like a fox from hunters, coming out only by the moon’s dubious light, transforming him into a hungry shadow searching for food like an animal. He begged crusts and crumbs from terrified neighbors, also sequestered to their homes.

The German soldiers rolled through his picturesque village like an army of masticating ants, killing and carrying off twenty times their weight in carcasses and loot, devouring everything in their paths; ants with thick helmets shielding their consciences from the ricocheting screams of the innocents, overpowering the powerless and meeting no resistance, proclaiming a ruthless victory that went as smoothly as a bayonet through a baby.

John waited, starving and powerless in his bleak grotto, until allied troops liberated the Netherlands nearly five years later.

John turned ninety five on his last birthday and had managed to maintain a sharp mind, generous humor, and a sincere love for his fellow man. I marveled at his resilience, and I sensed that when I visited him that I was in the company of a great man. I also knew that this visit in particular would probably be our last. John was in the final stages of his battle with cancer.

I held John’s emaciated hand and envisioned him as a twenty four year old man hiding from the Nazis. I tried to imagine the mental and physical strength he had to conjure in order to get through such a horrific ordeal, and the unspeakable relief he must have felt at his deliverance. He knew the meaning of freedom in a way that most people in our country couldn’t fathom…including me.

Last Monday, our dear John passed away peacefully with his lovely wife by his side. It was the ultimate liberation, freeing him from a sick body that had become more of a prison than a home. Although I’m going to miss John, I know that things are as they should be.

Why am I telling you this story? Because it’s almost Independence Day and John is gone, but I am still filled up with him. And, I wanted to say something important about the day….and how John’s life was important too. I needed to put these thoughts on paper so the meaning of John’s suffering would never be forgotten.

I’m sad…but mostly grateful. Grateful that I knew John and that I live in a country where there is peace and plenty. I want to thank John and the other brave souls who have suffered and perished for freedom’s sake, for giving me the carefree pleasure of lighting a sparkler, eating a hot dog, and waving the American flag this holiday weekend.

One need only look back a short distance to imagine what life would be like without freedom…

Finding True North

2011-06-28T04:59:00.000-07:00

With the simple ring of my cell phone my predictable weekend turned into a mini-vacation. The fluid voice was that of Jude’s, AKA Lady Judith, (but never Judy) stating that she and her husband, Richard, (just Richard, although Sir Richard would suit him nicely) had flown in from St. Croix for a few days and would love to see us. Before I knew it these treasured friends were in my guest room (which I made ready in a happy haste) unpacking. It had been a couple of years since our last visit and we were excited to be together again.

When you haven’t seen someone for a while you notice the subtle changes in people’s appearances and they notice them in you…crinkly smile lines, thicker lenses, shocks of white brushed in by longevity, transforming familiar faces into time-lapsed versions of their originals, triggering feelings of tenderness…and shameful relief that we weren’t the only ones maturing.

We passed seasoned memories around like expensive hors d'oeuvres, savoring the flavors in delectable silence, periodically exploding with peals of open mouthed laughter, and then settling back into a satiated silence. I wanted to capture the moment...put it in my pocket, so I could take it out and enjoy it again when joy turns slippery and life seems flat.

Under the soft lighting of nightfall we shared our dreams. Dreams shaken like talc from a near empty tin, revealing powdery expeditions to uncharted places, true north lying somewhere between I have to and I want to, and navigating more towards I want to, because have-to’s are all too common…and time is an impatient traveler.

It was a spur-of-the-moment tribal gathering of ad-libbing elders speaking all at once, producing a symphony of voluminous chatter, adjusting our wisdom to answer our fears, and boldly inflating our faith in preparation for the adventures ahead.

Sharing our home with these intimate friends resulted in a medicinal mingling of souls which was restorative on all levels; it was like having a cosmic prescription generously filled by life… and conveniently delivered to our front door. We will miss them.

Mother Nature's Wild Child

2011-06-23T19:38:00.000-07:00

Nature is a glamorous lady. She knows who she is and inspires confidence from those around her. Her kingdom follows a pre-set pulse, birds migrate, seasons change, stars sparkle, and the sun rises. Harmonious and elegant, dangerous, and powerful, she is a focused force who does not suffer fools lightly. Each of nature’s children dances to her rhythm, effortlessly following a pre-destined path, and accepting where it leads. Then there is man… a bumbling bundle of nail-biting neediness and knuckle cracking ambition, wondering at his purpose, and fearfully grasping for more. Oblivious to nature’s tempo he dances to his own beat, trampling on toes in his quest for dominance.

Homo sapiens are unique mammals, gifted with free-will, and possessing the mental aptitude to question everything. They are clever and capricious, creating miracles and monsters. They have been honored as the most benevolent of beings and condemned as the most cursed and loathsome creatures in all of creation. In their minds they are the crème de la crème of species; the smartest, upright walkingest, thumb bearingest, beings ever conceived. So, if mankind is so stunningly superior, why then are they sometimes so ignorant?

I was walking through my neighborhood the other day and instead of returning home I settled on a swing hanging from a large oak tree in my neighbor’s yard. The shade was so refreshing that I decided to recline for a while. Looking up from beneath the tree’s canopy I was struck by the amount of activities taking place within its branches.

Here was a massive plant contently offering its gifts back to the earth. I felt small and selfish compared to this vast and generous hardwood. I wanted to know this tree better, so I listened carefully and this is what I heard: “I am a tree with luminous leaves, waving like the swells on a malachite sea. My branches search the air, reaching toward Venus, spreading like the expansive darkness which confines the stars to heaven, and shading moonstruck lovers as they kiss beneath my leafy veil. Birds flock to me for refuge, settling into their twiggy nests while chirping lullabies to their nodding chicks. Children climb high upon my shoulders, seeking enchanted castles amidst the clouds, and pirate ships cruising along the opaque horizon. My roots run deep, and my exalted purpose is to mirror my mother’s nurturing beauty and my father’s unfathomable love. This satisfies me completely. Who are you?”

I was unprepared for the question...and blushing with humility. Quietly I searched my heart for a reply. After much consideration I realized that the answer was simple, so I spoke, “My name is Leah. I’m one of the billions of souls inhabiting this planet. I’m following my heart, making mistakes, and learning how to love, which satisfies me completely. Nice to meet you.”

A Romantic Rumor

2011-06-18T18:46:00.000-07:00

I grew up with a diaphanous father who floated above me like a caption bubble saying, “?”.

He was a romantic rumor, a previous chapter in my mother’s book of life, leaving behind no photos for his three little girls to frame and fawn over. There would be no frame hugging in this family. No searching his dark eyes for our own, or comparing the curve of our noses to his; no joy of discovering a trace of ourselves in his image, thus… answering our desperate curiosity. The only evidence of his existence was our existence.

My dad was an old movie reel flickering in my mind, with imaginary memories, conjured by a credulous child, intoxicated with prime time fathers, and aching for paternal adoration.

I was always comparing my invisible father to the other girls’ dads, which never worked out well for me. I suffered like an amputee with an inflamed phantom limb… finding no possible way to soothe it.

I felt that I had been gypped by life; everybody that I knew had two parents, but I only had one. I assumed that I was somehow to blame for my father’s absence, after all I was little girl number three, and in my little girl mind I thought that he was tired of daughters. I envisioned him throwing his arms up in defeat when I was born, and tromping off to find another family where he could have his very own little boy. Of course all of this was nonsense, but the actual reasons for him leaving were incredibly complicated; certainly nothing a mere child could possibly comprehend.

Father’s Day continues to be a holiday that I view from afar, like witnessing the customs of a foreign country. There is still an empty seat at the head of my childhood table, and a little girl waiting wistfully by the darkened window. She knows that he isn’t returning, but she’s found nothing else that could take his place.

Appreciate every moment that you have with your dad. Hug him, tell him you love him, and do nice things for him, for there are many children, both old and young, who have never experienced a fathers’ love and the joy and security that it offers.

For those of you who have known the void of a fatherless childhood, my message to you is this: Accept the vacancy in your heart as part of yourself; offer it honor and appreciation. You are the incredible person that you are, because of that vacuum. You have had to find your identity independent of a father’s influence. You have had to be brave and resilient during hard times, when a strong hand wasn’t there to guide you…or hold you.

Be proud of whom you are, and of the family that you have…that coalition of love that worked doubly hard in order to fill in the gap left by your father. And remember, there is only one true Father, and He is of the Spirit, and not of the flesh. He will never leave you; for He lives in you.

All We Are Saying...

2011-06-16T18:23:00.000-07:00

I remember sitting cross legged on the Worcester Common, with my hair frizzed out like Janice Joplin’s, and my training bra tucked inside my back pocket, while joining a massive choir of Flower Children, singing; “All we are saying, is give peace a chance.” This was the 60’s mantra, and although I was too young to really grasp the importance of the message, I remember feeling incredibly peaceful at the time.

Perhaps we were naïve in thinking that we could change the world with a song, but being a part of something much larger than myself taught me that I wasn’t alone. It emboldened me in a way I had never experienced before, raising my cowering expectations to a heady high…at least for that moment.

After a lifetime of living in fast-paced society I can see what a rare commodity peace really is. Life sometimes seems like an omnipresent octopus with eight suction cupped arms reaching in eight different directions at once, bringing multi-tasking to a jaw clenching new level, and causing me to be at odds with…well, myself. My life has given birth to a life of its own, creating a second generation of things to do, and sometimes a third. So, I’m taking the simple advice from an old mantra, and giving peace a chance.

This means I will have to make room for peace by intentionally inviting it in…and doing peaceful things.

Things like: Going the long way home on purpose because it gives me time to finish listening to my favorite song.

Adding extra hot water to my bath because I’m in the middle of a chapter…and the world won’t stop if I take a little longer.

Leisurely browsing through the library, and randomly reading the first and last pages of a novel, because somebody poured their soul into writing it, and I know that I will never get to read all the amazing books that have been written.

Writing poetry, even though I’m not sure how, because I love the surprise of using words in new ways …and poetry reminds me of my mother.

Going clothes shopping and gathering armloads of eclectic items that I would normally be afraid to wear, and then trying them on, and discovering something fabulous in the pile.

Writing in my journal using cursive handwriting, with large flamboyant letters that flair and twirl like dancers, so that no matter how conflicted my words seem, they all look beautiful.

The other day I took a stroll out to my mailbox and I noticed the same two familiar doves that I’ve seen dozens of times before. They were sitting peacefully, side by side on a telephone wire, quietly watching the clatter of life below…and I wondered if they realized what a good example they were setting.

To Blog or Not to Blog

2011-06-14T06:31:00.000-07:00

To blog or not to blog…that is the question. I’ve been sitting on this blog for three days now…pondering if I should post it or not. My ego/pride was arguing that I sometimes reveal too much to you, yet my artist/spiritual side was arguing that the truth is the only thing worth writing. So, after contemplating the universe from my Corolla, while zipping through traffic, harmonizing with Bette, and using my steering wheel as a percussion instrument, I’ve committed to posting my insanity. Sometimes I take life too damn seriously ;) Here goes…

I really need to take better care of myself; so, I’ve decided to sift through the clutter and confusion of a thousand unsolicited messages…and dump the garbage, while keeping all the gold. Sounds reasonable, practical, and relatively simple, but fools rush in when the glitter blinds them, and just because it glitters doesn’t mean that it’s relevant.

Have you ever looked in the mirror, and then five minutes later, forgotten what you look like? I have. So, it’s easy to understand how, sometimes, when I’m feeling insecure, I hand my keys over to somebody else whom I deem more competent than myself, and before I know it I’m being driven off in the opposite direction… with a contented grin on my face.

Wandering from my path, I cross over into strange territories, where gangs of amped-up emotions hang out, spitting out insults and bullying me. Sometimes I startle myself with my neediness, allowing my un-guarded mind to dance on the blood-stained blade of insecurity while reaching for things that I think I need. I reach because it distracts me from having to face the truth of my own path, because the truth is often messy, and it can make me bleed…and I’m oh so tired of bleeding.

So, I’m taking inventory of my life…and where to put my energy, and I’m avoiding all the detours that may throw me off my course. Snipping off the useless threads of yesterday’s miseries and stitching up my heart in the places it’s been torn. Observing my desires and seeing what I really need, to keep myself present, and living in my skin. I’m following my path; surrendering to where it leads, and listening carefully to the voice I hear within.

Okay, I didn’t mean for that last paragraph to rhyme…perhaps Dr. Seuss is my distant relative. Anyway, yeah… it’s time to trust myself and my path, hit the accelerator… and stop looking for the exit ramps!

Reinventing Yourself

2011-06-09T06:53:00.000-07:00

Between unemployment, and outsourcing, the number of jobs available to the American worker has decreased over recent years, leaving the masses to duke it out for the remaining available positions. College graduates, high school dropouts, and senior citizens are often found competing for the same entry level jobs. The average Joe needs to be pretty clever in order to make his resume stand out above the rest, including, but not limited to, reinventing himself.

In the old days you could approach supervisors and managers for an impromptu face-to-face interview, dazzling them with your clever conversation and brand new business suit. These days you face cold kiosks and tedious online applications. Taking your best shot, you tremble as you key in your answers to a series of absurd questions which were generated by a roomful of bored human resource idiots. Oh, and by the way, there are NO right answers to those questions!

Over the years I’ve had to reinvent myself a number of times. It’s not an easy task. Actually, it’s quite unnerving, demanding mountains of chutzpah (which I believe to be a recessive gene inherited from our ancient ancestor Noah, made famous for building an ark in the desert…with no prior experience in that field!) and yards of patience.

My resume is more eclectic than impressive. I’ve sold cars, waited tables, been a bartender, office worker, cook, and started my own businesses. Like a gypsy in a circus I’ve hopped on and off of various pyramid scheme bandwagons, hoping to strike it rich by selling lipstick, algae, vitamins, plastic containers, and environmentally safe household cleaning agents, filling my spare room with product while depleting my bank account…and sometimes my self-esteem.

I’ve taken endless college courses, sat through sappy seminars, and endured countless job orientations, yawning through their monotonous PowerPoint presentations while thinking; I don’t belong here…I’m a writer. Hell, now that I think of it, I’m the fricken queen of reinvention!

I’ve said all that, in order to say this: if you’re in a position where your former work experience adds up zero because of the changing job market… you are not alone. Neither are you too old to make a change or reinvent yourself. It may require you to be open to some things that might seem foreign to you, like new technology; and, you may have to spend a little money on education, or tools, but the investment is really in yourself and your own future.

If fear and worry are threatening to strangle you because your bills have piled up and your faith seems too small, remember… there are still some constants in life. Here’s a little list of some familiar truths:
Accepting your situation short circuits stress and allows your creative energy to flow.
If you believe in yourself, so will others.
Be good to people; they have it rough too.
Do the work and then step out in faith.
Trust God for the outcome and then leave it alone!

If the life you built has become unrecognizable… then it’s probably time to build a new life. Dream big and don’t you dare back down!

Searching for Magic

2011-06-04T09:07:00.000-07:00

As I rode the night train up the east coast to North Carolina I was definitely a stranger in a strange land. I felt a little like an actor in a foreign film, (Europeans are always riding trains) and I was tempted to re-invent myself, become Lily Ormond, a sulky poet with an obsession for gum drops, or Julia Van Helsing, the wife of a mad doctor escaping a nightmarish marriage. I decided to remain a struggling American author breaking away from her monotonous life; open to everything, and hoping for magic.

Vacations seem a lot like holidays to me, only I get to pick the date, and the object of celebration. I was celebrating life. Ordinarily I’d be snapping photos of everything and everyone, but I didn’t do that on this trip. Actually I was so engrossed in observing my surroundings that, most of the time; I forgot to take pictures, letting myself take in the whole experience without the interruption of having to get my camera out. I found that with most observations came a smell and a sound and then an emotion. I was awake and sentient, alive in a very present way.

So, I don’t have many actual photos to show you, but here are some snippets of moments that I’d like to share.

Being surrounded by big trees…Florida is very scruffy.

Watching Oprah’s final 3 episodes while crying, and sneaking sips of Beth’s martini. Sorry Beth ;)

Meeting cyber friends and finding out that they smell good, and give good hugs, and that they are even more amazing in person.

Hearing my soul sister’s oldest son say “I do” and then crying, because just yesterday he was only twelve.

Singing Christmas carols in May, while tucked in for the night with my four year old grand daughter and her mom…and wishing that that moment would never end.

Dancing in a crush of strangers and laughing so hard that my face hurt.

Eating vanilla ice cream cones with Lano, in the sweltering heat, and us frantically licking at the drips before they crept down to our hands.

Getting a phone call from Mr. Somers, telling me that my novel took first place in the Laine Cunningham/Blotter Literary Magazine Novel Contest, and crying because I knew that my novel was good…I just wanted somebody in the industry to notice it.

Recognizing my husband Mike amongst an army of waiting faces at the train station, and watching him squint into the Florida sun…as he searched the crowd for me.

Visiting our favorite Cuban restaurant on the way home and discovering that it hadn’t changed in twenty years.

I found my magic;)

The End is Near. Burger Anyone?

2011-05-21T07:34:00.000-07:00

So, today, beginning at 7 am in the UK, the world is supposed to end and those worth saving will shoot off into the sky like people rockets toward heaven… while the rest of us will watch in horror and die a slow torturous death… and then spend the rest of eternity in hell…being tormented. This is according to Harold Camping the head of a US Christian broadcaster.

Hmmm…what to do with my last day? I could spend it praying, but I think God would know that I was sucking up, kind of like the husband bringing home roses because of his guilty conscience. Nah…we’re good, besides if the world ends today He’s going to be pretty busy.

I could gather up all my expired pain pills and wash them down with a fifth of rum. This way I won’t feel anything when I die. But that would be the Cowardly Lion’s way out. I always envisioned myself being more like Bruce Willis in Armageddon…going out with a big bang….and dignity.

I used to think that I was somehow defective because of my emotional sloshings. That was until some clever somebody invented the internet… Thanks Al. So, now I go online and read articles, and blogs, and I can see that every-fricken-body feels the same way I do. Anxious.

Like living on a large spinning ball in the middle of space, with violent weather episodes, earthquakes, starvation, war, sickness, death…and a rotten economy, wasn’t enough to make us anxious, now we have Mr. Camping threatening us will hell and destruction. Hell? Mr. Camping, please read the first sentence of this paragraph for the perfect definition of hell.

Harold, I know that you’re 89, and you probably mean well, but I have more important things to do than to listen to your asinine predictions. When I die, (and I will die) I am confident that my soul will find its home with a very personal and loving God, and that your delusional elixir of fear will have evaporated into the white light of nothingness for eternity. Good day sir.

Gotta go…I’m craving a burger…and then I think I’ll scour the mall for just the right tone of lipstick to go with my new dress! Priorities!

Tricks & Props

2011-05-17T06:13:00.000-07:00

Years ago I wrote an elaborate description of the perfect writing room. I decided that I needed an antique oak writing desk placed strategically in front of a large naked window with a scenic view. I also had to have an over-stuffed chair so I could relax while conjuring breathtaking prose. I envisioned rich mahogany bookshelves bulging with volumes from all of my favorite authors. And of course I could only use a state of the art laptop (with the best music apps) to write with.

I really believed that I needed all of the above mentioned props…and that I couldn’t possibly write without them. What I didn’t realize was that this was just a clever way for my subconscious to trick me into putting my writing off. I’m assuming the reason for such self-deception was to divert my fragile ego from the real issue…which was that I lacked confidence in my ability to actually write an amazing novel and I was terrified of failure.

Procrastination distracted me from facing my fears with his reassuring stories about how I not only deserved a wonderful writing space, but I NEEDED one in order to make contact with my muse. Procrastination is clever. He knows how to pitch a story… and provide an alibi. I’m guessing he used to be a politician or a lawyer.

I put off writing anything serious for years; carrying my novel within me, like the fertile seeds of motherhood, waiting in crimson silence for conception.

Then one day, while cruising some yard sales, I purchased a book entitled Writing Down the Bones, by Natalie Goldberg. She spoke about writing in an authentic way by ignoring the rules; thus allowing the uniqueness of the writer’s voice to reveal itself. Reading this little paperback literally changed my life…and it only cost me twenty five cents!

Soon my desire to write shadowed my desire for my imaginary room and I began jotting down thoughts. I wrote while waiting in the doctor’s office, and at red lights; scribbling on used McDonald’s napkins. I wrote at the grocery store using the back of my shopping list, and on bumpy paper towels at the dinner table; pushing aside my food in order to satisfy an even deeper hunger. I was driven… and I loved every electrical thought provoking minute of it.

With Natalie’s help, my muse had wrestled procrastination to the ground. A year later I completed my very first novel. It’s a beautiful work of fiction entitled Cosette’s Tribe, and I’m as proud of it as a new mother is of her first child.

If you’re procrastinating about a dream, chances are it’s the flimsy efforts of an overly sensitive ego trying to save face. Stop waiting for unnecessary props and do what you love now. Don’t save for dancing lessons before stepping onto the dance floor, for it’s in doing that we learn and in living that we live… get out there and do something!

Euphoria...Rapturous Bliss...Really?

2011-05-12T06:20:00.000-07:00

Fabricator of Euphoria
I have what I need. What I don’t have I don’t need…right now. Easy peasy and that’s the end of my blog.

I wish it were so easy. It’s not so peasy either. Contentment…it’s a big pill to swallow; a big girl pill, and not one of those orange flavored chewables.

Contentment is often compared with happiness, but being content has more to do with surrender and resting peacefully in whatever situation you may find yourself in, while happiness, being contentment’s sun shiny sister, is more dependent on good things happening and is easily extinguished. However happiness should never be confused with euphoria. Euphoria is pure rapturous bliss and you need a rocket launcher to reach it.
Euphoria is so rare that it should be banned from normal dictionaries and only recorded in celestial books along with the last names of the residents of Cloud Nine and the addresses of the Archangels.

Euphoria. Who invented this word anyway? It had to have been a man because women, by virtue of their subservient history…and monthly visitor, are automatically excluded from ever being able to imagine such a word. Euphoria…rapturous bliss…really?

I can just see the guy who drummed this one up. He’s sitting drunk and bitter, straining to read by the dim light of his stubby candle. It’s Friday night and he just got through with a long week of trimming the decaying fat from rancid sows at the open aired butchery. His wife hates him because of their poverty and refuses to sleep with him. His wine flask is empty and he’s contemplating suicide. Cursing like a madman his beady eyes suddenly brighten with inspiration. “I’ll invent a word that will make everyone in the world feel cheated and as miserable as me. EUPHORIA!!” he shouts, as his hacking laughter fills the filthy air of his stuffy hut. His wife mumbles in her sleep, swatting at bedbugs, while his skinny offspring scratch at their festering sores.

Cynic? Perhaps. But really…Euphoria?! I was going to pitch you a patch of sunshine on being content no matter how deep a mud hole you're stuck in, but the bottom line really is…you have what you need for this moment and if you suck it up long enough things will get better...and I ain't just making this crap up ;)

Motherhood...Messy Miracles.

2011-05-08T07:29:00.000-07:00

When I was a very young child I remember following my mother around…clinging to her as though I were an appendage; a shoot from the same tree, happy to be growing up in the shadowy shelter of her nurturing presence. Her unbendable strength seemed iconic to me... a mix of God and Mary Poppins. She could straighten out any crisis life brought to my tiny door with a wave of her dishpan hands.

Ma was a creative cook, talented seamstress, and a persuasive orator. I repeated her home spun wisdom to the world like a self-righteous evangelist; pitying the kids who weren’t lucky enough to have her for a mom. Her words were like seeds quietly taking root in the fertile soil of my heart and bearing the eclectic fruit of my mother’s soul.

It seemed as I grew my mother shrank. I became more observant and self-assured, questioning everything, while she made mistake after mistake. I cringed with embarrassment at her humanity as though I had walked in on God in his underwear. It was at this point that I realized that my mother didn’t have all of the answers, and although she loved me, she wasn’t able to save me…or herself. This made me ferociously protective of her… and extremely frustrated and angry.

When I finally became a mother I realized that I was still just me…Leah. All of my hang-ups and fears where present, causing me to fumble with motherhood like a football player on a buttered field. This instantly disqualified me from ever being a perfect mother. Desperate for guidance, I found myself phoning my imperfect mother for help on a daily basis.

If Ma had done some things differently she could have saved her children a lot of pain. But her life was impossibly complicated which caused her to lose her way. And like unwitting accomplices to a crime her children bore the punishment for her mistakes even though she meant us no harm.

I understand this now, and although she failed as a perfect mother, she was magnificent as an imperfect mother. The love, kindness, and honesty, that she managed to instill in her children in the midst of life’s ravaging storms is her legacy. It’s an amazing legacy and one that is still bearing good fruit today. Thank you Ma.

So, this is to all of you imperfect mothers out there who struggle to raise happy children in the midst of your own unhappiness. I salute you! Motherhood definitely isn’t easy… or for cowards, and it ISN’T about perfection! It’s all about doing your best with what you have and loving yourself, so that in turn, you can love your children. And remember…we are a perfectly imperfect species.

Happy Mother’s Day!

I Could be Persuaded.

2011-05-05T07:26:00.000-07:00

The morning nudges me awake like a dutiful parent; tugging softly, yet with purpose. I dress and head outside, squinting into the tropically brilliant morning, and even though I have a long work day ahead of me, I feel lucky to be living in such an alluring place. Watching the palm trees sway like hula girls and the playful Gulf of Mexico swish her foamy skirts at me...drives me to giddiness!

Sometimes, when life turns dark and moody, it’s as though a bucketful of mud has been splattered onto this scenic canvas, and I become blinded to the showy charm of my little town; overlooking the natural blessings which surround me.

It’s easy to get discouraged when troubles stack up like storm clouds, and the future blurs like a windshield in a relentless downpour, and even though my wipers are slapping triple time; it’s still hard to see the road. I guess there are times when I don’t need to see the road per se…I just need to stay on the right side of that skinny yellow line and creep along until I get wherever the road leads me.

I am persuaded that it’s the small joys in life that carry me through these drenching squalls; reading a great book on the beach, visiting a waterfront café with my husband, making a stranger smile, phoning someone that I love. There are limitless small pleasures that make my journey seem lighter and more inspiring, and on days that seem extra dark, or bland, I pursue these simple pleasures like a miner seeks gold. It’s one of the easiest ways to offer myself comfort and balance.

So, even though things may sometimes seem messy and jumbled, with life’s moods changing faster than a chameleon sliding down a rainbow, I want to be thrilled with my journey and gratefully indulge in all of life’s benevolent handouts. Gratitude is the heart’s way of offering something back…extending a “please” and “thank you” to the divine. It’s also a great tour guide for this complex and wondrous journey through life.

Ask The Brit...Anything British!

2011-05-03T05:45:00.000-07:00

Ask the Brit 002

Wedding Bells

By Kris English

Friday dawned a beautiful day defying a forecast of rain and for one famous couple it was due to be a special day. Prince William and Kate Middleton got married Friday to a worldwide audience of a few billion people. For British citizens it was a proud moment. The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge emerged onto the balcony in a picture that was hauntingly reminiscent of Dianna’s marriage to Prince Charles.

Kate Middleton looked beautiful in her dress and Prince William looked every bit a prince in his stately uniform. I felt proud to be British; our monarchy has been a symbol of the British people around the world. As a monarchist I am a firm fan of our royalty however their role is little more than a tourist attraction in modern society.

Looking back one will see that our Royals, much like our people, come from all over the world. This is very similar to the American people; though much of our migration took place many years ago. The original people to occupy the British Isles were the Celts and then the Romans, and the Vikings, clearing the way for other European people to occupy our small island nation. Rapidly Great Britain became one of the greatest Empires in the world and one of the largest of its time.

Now I hope you’ve enjoyed a little history lesson and found time to watch the Royal Wedding.

Thanks for reading, if you want to ask me a question simply post it below or you can email me at KJ_Kris84@hotmail.com Just add “Ask the Brit” in the subject line.Our True Brit

Visit Kris’s blog: viewingthroughalens.blogspot.com

What Are You Wearing?!

2011-05-01T09:11:00.000-07:00

I have a confident friend with perceptive eyes and a welcoming smile. A woman who is lovely in both heart and flesh. She dresses in exotic fabrics perfumed with romantic scents that smell so delicious they may have been imported from heaven. Her movements are naturally rhythmic like window sheers dancing on a summer’s breeze. Whimsical, she loves wearing tinkling bangles, and luminous moonstone, always adding enchantment to the ordinary. She is a palpable palate of color captivating eyes long bored with beige skirts and sensible shoes. Her artful ways inspire creativity…and jealousy.

This unique friend works in a respectable office with a group of careful women; women with tight lips, and cutting eyes, whose ambiguous smiles express cryptic thoughts. My friend thought that she could win this group over by being herself…sharing her mirthful ways with them. In chilled silence they resisted her offerings, lending my friend warmth only when she conformed to their sterile traditions. Little by little my friend abandoned herself; shedding her bangles, bunning her long hair, and dressing in itchy, wrinkle resistant polyesters, while her friendly silks hung forgotten in the darkness of her closet.

One day, as my friend was getting ready to leave for work, her husband gently questioned her. “Honey,” he said, in a hesitant voice, “what are you wearing?” You see her husband loved her whimsical ways and missed the charm of her expressiveness and the seductive poise which carried her, like a magic carpet, throughout her day. She looked down at her drab wardrobe, as if seeing it for the very first time, and simply answered, “I don’t know.”

I am happy to report that my friend has resumed her relationship with herself and is still working at the same office. She has made some friends…the right ones, and learned a very valuable lesson from her experience.

We were created to be different. The only true gift that we have to offer the world is our authentic selves. Once compromised, we become impotent clones numbered among the lost, living a life without purpose, and dying alone with our regrets. Being yourself often requires great bravery, but it is better to be alone, and content with yourself, than to be in a crowded room where nobody recognizes you…including yourself.

May I Have a Moment?

2011-04-28T06:08:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, when something wonderful is happening, I become intensely aware of the moment—and that as it unfolds it’s also slipping away, becoming a faded snapshot destined to spend eternity filed away in my unreliable memory …neglected, and eventually forgotten. Time really is an illusion. There is only now. Yet, now is ever changing like the clouds and the shoreline, seemingly moving forward like a man in a blinding snowstorm whose footprints are erased by the driving winds, leaving him unable to see where he came from or where he is going.

Holding on to a moment is impossible. It’s like trying to capture the twinkling of a star. I remember holding my infant son and feeling the synchronal love flowing like milky waves between us, and then becoming startled with the smothering epiphany that this precious infant of mine was going to some day disappear… and I would no longer have a baby. I cried into his feathery hair with this suffocating awareness, trying to remember everything about him as he cooed and snuggled into me, oblivious of the moments that lay before him; resolutely waiting to escort him into manhood.

My son is nearly thirty now, and although we share an unbreakable bond, and I wouldn’t trade him in for that baby that I once held, I sometimes tear up when I stumble upon his three legged teddy bear, or his favorite childhood blanket; caught off guard by the intensity of the moment…and the memories.

There is a charged expectancy hidden within the folds of each moment as we reach for something more…and also a tender desperation as we let go…eventually leaving behind everything. The exchange is bittersweet…yet, with optimism, we bravely do it every day. This is life and how it’s done. We were made for this, wired just the right way so it makes sense to us, and doesn’t scare us into our shells like terrified turtles.

Our hearts are a great depository holding the sundry moments of our lives like the yellowed pages of an old book. These sanguine moments have changed our paths, our thinking, and even chosen who we will love. They are our heart's alibi proving that we have lived, in this moment, and this moment alone.

Ask the Brit!

2011-04-25T08:33:00.000-07:00

I’ve always been fascinated with Britain. I believe it’s because so many of our roots and traditions stem from there. America was birthed from British expatriates which sort of makes us Britain’s prodigal daughter. We’re so alike yet so different.

Since the British Invasion back in the 1960’s America has been flirting with the English… and poking fun at them. They’ve given us amazing writers, musicians, actors, princesses; not to mention arrogant talent show judges….the list is endless. So I’ve decided to invite, Kris English, a friend, and fellow blogger, who just happens to be thoroughly British, to do a weekly post answering questions on everything British.

Most of us remember the Royal Wedding between Charles and Diana…and its tragic ending. This Friday much of the world will watch as Will and Kate tie the knot, which may stir up some interesting questions about the Monarchy. No matter what your questions this should be fun. Remember…no holds barred! Ask the Brit...I'm sure he has some clever answers.

Ask the Brit 001

Ask the Brit By Kris English.

The United Kingdom has a long history and a great Alliance with the United States; however there are many differences between the two countries, especially lingual differences, so in this weekly guest blog I'll answer your questions or give you some news or a story from this side of the pond, giving you a little education on us Brits.

Lingual differences are major thing. I’ve often heard people speak of American-English and Americanism’s which are interesting. There are some things lost in translation, which make for some interesting comments. Living close to an American Base here in the UK we get a lot of Americans living in my town. Many visit the Take Away (fast food) place where I work. I had four Air Force men in a few days ago and it took them ages to find the right money because they weren’t certain if 20p was a 20p. So, for all of you Americans who have never seen British coins, this is what our money looks like:

From the left: 1p, 2p, 5p, 10p, 20p, 50p, £1 and £2.

I happen to work with a young American in the restaurant/take away and I had just swept when our boss said to him, with the mop in his hand,
“Are you going to do a clean sweep through the restaurant?”
“But Kris has just swept it,” he returned with a puzzled look.
“I meant are you going to mop through the whole restaurant?” she replied, and enlightenment finally came to my American co-worker. It’s these and other comments that make me like the American visitors even more.

Question time:

If you have a question you’d like to ask, maybe some differences between the British and American peoples then I will try and do my best to answer. No question is too silly or off limits. We’ll start with Leah’s question.

Question: What are Crumpets?
Answer: Crumpets are like bread; we toast them and have them at breakfast on occasion with Jam, marmite or Nutella (chocolate spread). Yes we also have Tea with them because a lot of people have a cup of tea for breakfast.

Thanks for reading, if you want to ask me a question simply post it below or you can email me at KJ_Kris84@hotmail.com Just add “Ask the Brit” in the subject line.

Visit Kris’s blog: viewingthroughalens.blogspot.com

Eastah in Wistah

2011-04-24T06:25:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid, Easter marked the beginning of spring and the end of another long cold New England winter; ushering in the return of kick ball, long bike rides, and eventually summer vacation. Although most of the trees still stood naked and desperate looking, spring was officially in the air. It was as though the April sun had become a patient crock pot…slowly thawing out the neighborhood, and producing a fresh batch of happy smells that had been frozen away for months.

Ma began planning our Easter outfits right after New Year; cutting and sewing until three frilly pastel dresses, with layer upon layer of tulle puffiness, appeared on hangers in our closets. These dresses were made to open up like Gerber Daisies when you twirled around in them. I can still remember my sisters and I twirling until we were sick with dizziness and then falling down in fits of wet-your-pants laughter.

On Easter Eve, Ma would set our hair in rags and then make us wear our underpants on our heads to keep them in place (okay, we were poor). The desired result was three little heads draped in long dark bologna curls. The next morning we’d ransack our apartment searching for our Easter baskets; snarling and clawing at each other like feral cats, until our hunt was rewarded and we were gorging ourselves on marshmallow chicks, jelly beans, and speckled malt eggs. The coveted hollow chocolate bunny, which never made it through the hunt in one piece, was set aside for later. As we munched on our candy, Ma would remove our rags; transforming us into three gluttonous Shirley Temple look-a-likes.

We were poor and scrappy, but once we donned our fancy dresses we became demure and polite. Even our Worcester accents took on a hoity-toity quality, sounding more like, Oliver Twist, meets Tony, The-Ice-Pick, Garbino.

Easter service always seemed too long. What with that banged up chocolate bunny waiting at home and a big meal to look forward to. The crowded church became a sea of pastels and stank of morning after booze breath and cheap perfume. Punctually, the high mass would begin and the church would come alive with the ceremonial thurible swinging (incense bong), genuflecting, and our cantata singing priest. The best thing about Easter service was hearing that Jesus was finally off of that awful cross and alive again. The worst part was leaving, and having to walk under the life-sized wooden carving of Jesus still hanging on the cross, complete with realistic blood stains and glistening tears. Staring soulfully down at me, I always felt that Jesus somehow needed my help getting down from there.

Dream On...and on...and on...

2011-04-22T09:17:00.000-07:00

Photograph by Fran Murphy
What’s the difference between having faith and magical thinking? Faith sounds much more grounded for some reason. Like it’s anchored to something tangible. Whereas magical thinking sounds like it has no boundaries at all. It’s all over the place… like dust. With magical thinking one could wish to be Peter Pan, or perhaps Rocky Balboa.

Magical thinking often escorts me to my daydreams, helping me to see everything that I yearn for, inciting my heart rate to quicken…and my mouth to water with desire. I envision myself holding the sought after trophy, taking my grateful bows…and it somehow changes me. Wondrously, it elevates my faith and inspires me to believe that nearly anything is possible!

I heard a story once about a woman who kept telling everyone that she was going to win the lottery. After a while people got sick of hearing her rant on and on about it. Friends began avoiding her…thinking that maybe she had blown a fuse...or two. Her father finally forbade her to speak on the subject when in his company. Then one day she won eleven million dollars. She phoned her father… hysterical, and told him that she had won. Disgusted with her latest delusion…he hung up on her. So, she drove to his house and presented him with the proof. He was an instant believer.

Did she create her own destiny with the positive words that she spoke? Was she a psychic? Or did she just have a hunch…a gut feeling that she couldn’t shake? Then again maybe it was all a coincidence and she was incredibly lucky. Of course there are all types of ways to attract luck. In Japan the white Maneki Neko (Lucky Cat) is valued for inviting in happiness, and the black Maneki Keko is valued for getting RID of bad luck. Yet, in America we bite our nails when a black cat crosses our path. I don’t know much about superstitions… but I do think that belief systems are incredibly interesting.

When it comes to making our dreams come true I think that we need to take advantage of every resource available to us….both tangible and magical. Positive words, thoughts, and visuals, coupled with hard work and determination. Not to mention the very fundamental, and often overlooked, rites of prayer and meditation. There are so many wonderful ingredients at our disposal!

Life is ours to do with as we choose. Some may choose to curse the darkness and make excuses for why they have given up. While others use that very same darkness as a stepping stone to reach higher places, strategically ignoring the naysayers and dream slayers, until they finally reach their desired destination.

People achieve their dreams every day. So…if you have a fantastic dream don’t give up on it. Keep on believing, and doing what you must do, until you breathe your last exalted breath and they’re printing out copies of your legendary obituary.
Aerosmith says it well...

“Dream until your dreams come true.”

To the Gallows...Again.

2011-04-17T17:42:00.000-07:00

What do you do when troubles build up and realistic options don’t seem to exist? I tend to panic, hyperventilate, and worry until the waters of my mind become muddied and I can’t think clearly any longer. This tends to frighten me even more than the original problems did. I continue in this mode until I’m paranoid….certain that I can hear the mournful bells tolling, the gallows being built….and my halting footsteps climbing the scaffold to my imminent doom. It is at this point that I finally give up….let go….and say screw it, surrendering to life and all that it holds for me.

This process is similar to when you lose something really important and frantically search every where for it….only to come up empty handed. Defeated, you count the precious thing as lost and cease your searching. Then lo and behold the item turns up on its own a few days later. “Oh! It was right here all along.” You sing, holding that precious item and determining to be much more careful with it in the future.

Well, that’s what I mean by surrender. You search and search for answers…. but there are none to be found. Finally, with tears and sighing, you let go…and somehow the answers eventually find you. It’s as though life sends them, like winged messengers, to your side. “Ah” you say, “so this is how it’s done. The next time I’m going to surrender from the start instead of driving myself insane.” But, when the next time rolls around (and it will) you do the same fearful walk to the gallows. Why can’t we just let things go when we hit a dead end? Because we underestimate the importance of faith; and overestimate our own abilities to fix stuff.

Letting go is scary…it requires faith that things are as they should be, for now, and that they will eventually improve with time. It also requires us to live in our troubles, work alongside of them, and sleep with them, while fighting the urge to slay them. Acceptance, faith, and surrender…. …when will I learn?!

This Chinese proverb speaks loudly on the subject of surrender: “Muddy waters let stand will clear.”

And Paul McCartney has a bit to say about it also…….

Flirting With Spring!

2011-04-13T18:11:00.000-07:00

All of creation is swooning with spring fever! Twitterpated birds thread fearlessly through budding trees, flirt-wrestling mid-air, and trilling love songs from the highest branches. Flowers boldly push through the stubborn earth, reborn and beautiful; beckoning weary souls to pause and bend their bored noses toward their buttery blossoms.

Sparkling breezes transport sunshine on their wingtips; arousing the senses from their wintry tombs, and resurrecting adolescent passions; the heavy sweetness of love’s breath ….seeking soft lips, and awakening a hunger for… more… more… more!

Windows swung open, like smiling mouths, invite the outside in….and the inside out. Everything seems acutely intense; music, colors, smells, tastes, until you find yourself intoxicated with sensory overload, batting your eyelashes like a shameless flirt, and wantonly kicking off your shoes as you join in the rapturous springtime dance….and fall in love with life all over again!

Spring is the seasonal equivalent of a grand celebration of life where Mother Earth explodes with extravagance, showing off her finest attributes, inspiring us to remember the promises of our youth and our desires for new beginnings…. until everything old seems new again…. and catching falling stars is an attainable goal!

Waiting in Line for Life

2011-04-11T06:20:00.000-07:00

I recently went to a nearby fast food joint for a quick lunch of chili and a diet soda, tenaciously avoiding the delectable, but deadly, cheeseburger and fries. While I was in line waiting to order my skinny girl feast I noticed a man in front of me who looked to be about my age but with a little more wear. His hair was salt and sunshine blond, loosely pulled back into a ponytail, allowing a crop of stray hairs to halo his tanned face. His eyes were friendly, and when he smiled the wrinkles around his eyes joined in, giving him a good natured weathered look, like he could have been the wise captain of a great ship.

We chatted as people do when they are stuck in a line together. He spoke about the headaches of cell phones. His had fallen into his swimming pool and he ended up paying a king's ransom to replace it. He showed me his new phone like an adoring father sharing photos of his first born.

Gathering my food, I found an empty booth by the window and settled in. Soon the captain was at my table asking if I minded if he joined me. Not vibing any “stranger danger” I welcomed his offer. We chatted on about a thousand little random things at once. There was anticipation in his voice when he spoke, and I could tell he enjoyed telling his story, and perhaps hadn't had the opportunity to do so in a very long time. We took turns bantering back and forth in a charged ping pongy sort of way.
After nearly an hour of verbal purging a comfortable silence replaced our electrified chatter. We had both vented and now it was time to move on.

It was nice to meet the captain (We never did exchange names) and find out about his world. I knew I would only be with him for this one hour and then he would be gone forever. This created a sense of satisfaction for me. I could enjoy this stranger’s company without any strings attached. I would never have to get to know what his issues were, or give him time to piss me off. I would be oblivious to the date of his birthday or what foods he was allergic too. I was free to explore who he was at that moment and then let him go. However, when I watched him walk away I felt a pinch of sadness too, because in that short hour we had formed a bond. It wasn’t a strong bond, like between best friends, it was more of a common bond between two sojourners on a journey; two souls making there way through a crowded world in search of a listening ear and perhaps a dash of understanding. It was just an ordinary moment that had somehow enriched my life, and I’m so glad that I took the time to enjoy it.

They Can’t Have my Lingerie!!!

2011-04-04T05:47:00.000-07:00

It was the morning of April first. I had just returned from a long week at work and was unloading my suitcase, when my cell rang. I was in an upbeat mood, it being Friday and all, and answered with a singsongy “Hello.” It didn’t take long for my tone to change to more of a doomsday march as the voice on the other end informed that my wages were being cut 27%.... affective that day! Initially I thought it was a cruel, but clever, April’s Fool Day joke, but alas the irony of life had once again visited me. It was no joke…and not funny….on any level.

I felt outraged at the cuts and began to froth at the mouth, spit spatting all my favorite curse words, and boiling over like a cauldron on a bonfire. Trying to calm myself, and keep my murderous hands busy, I decided to give my closet a good clean out. Cleaning (with loud music blasting) calms me down. It’s my way of venting and seeking control.

Sitting Indian style on my bedroom floor I sorted through shoes with no mates, jeans that no longer fit, and books I’d already read; creating hills of castoffs until I was finally able to see the stained carpeting of my closet floor….and a little something special. There pushed beneath the shadows of long dresses and winter coats I discovered a shiny pink shopping bag sprouting with tufts of heart kissed tissue paper, and looking elegantly sexy….. and somewhat out of place in my rumpled closet

I pulled the bag to me, shifted the tissue paper aside, and audibly sighed as I lifted a small assortment of delicate lingerie out of the bag. Black and lacey panties… with sequins! Cougar prints, hearts and kisses…yummy yummy lingerie that I had purchased about a month ago and had never removed from the bag! I remember the feeling I had when I first purchased it. I felt glamorous and sexy toting my little pink bag through the mall…… like a cast member of Sex in the City. I was powerful and mysterious; an experienced woman with secrets…okay so they were Victoria’s secrets but who gives a damn. I felt special!

So what happened? There had to be some sort of disconnect that caused me to stash them away without even a try on. I thought about it for a while and realized that I was saving them for a special occasion. My body is used to the utilitarian undies bought eight to a pack in sickening pastel shades, and nondescript bras bought in bulk with sturdiness in mind. These were neither.

What the hell kind of special occasion was I waiting for? It’s not as though there was a National Lingerie Day where I could sport my fancy panties and be the envy of the office. Nobody but my husband and I were ever going to see them; unless of course I got into an accident and a dishy Doctor happened to take a peek…nah, life isn’t like that for me….I’d definitely be wearing my Wally-Mart specials.

My pay cut flashed back through my mind, simultaneously igniting a spark of guilt. “I should return them,” I thought, biting at the side of my cheek and fingering the silky fabric of my new cougar and lace push-up bra, “we need the money.”

Things got a little blurry after that but the next thing I remember was posing in front of my bathroom mirror deliciously adorned in silk and lace and mumbling “They’re mine…I’m keeping them damn it.” I bit the tags off and pulled my faded jeans and T-shirt on over my pretty and provocative new intimates then sashayed back into my bedroom and finished cleaning my closet.

When a woman is down she needs to protect herself and draw the line some where. The way I see it they may be able to cut my wages, repossess my car, and foreclose on my house… but damn it, they can’t have my lingerie!!!

This song is for all the good women out there who keep on fighting no matter what life tosses at them.

I'm Glad You're With Me.

2011-03-31T08:12:00.000-07:00

My hearts capacity for love is endless. I have all sorts of people and things stored away in there. I love people differently than I love, say…a hot fudge sundae, but nevertheless I love them both, and my love for each doesn’t diminish my love for either of them.

Sometimes I’m surprised by the things that I love. I was never a lover of Chihuahuas because of a nasty bite I received from one when I was about six. But now I have a Chihuahua that I ferociously love. She proudly rides shotgun in my heart with her doggy ears blowing in the breeze and her eyes squinting with satisfaction.

There are seasons when certain people will have a major role in my world, and then the leaves fall, the seasons change, and those people will have moved on and are no longer players in my life. This doesn’t mean that I no longer love them; it simply means that our paths have called us in different directions.

Sometimes people will return to my life after years of separation, bringing with them the gift of a familiar love and a similar path. Walking side by side with them inspires me as we assist each other in completing our earthly tasks without fully realizing the enormity of the miracle taking place.

It’s wonderful, and necessary, to have good people in my life but there are only two people who will remain constants. One of them is me and the other is God. God’s face changes, as does his hands, voice, and stature. He is my friends and family, the people on my path, helping me to make my journey. I love them all and am extremely grateful that they are here…with me. They have taught me how to love myself.

To love yourself, is to love God, and in loving yourself, as is, and then offering that same magnificent gift to others we become in sync with the heartbeat of our lives and the reasons that we are all here…finally coming to a place where you feel complete when alone… instead of feeling completely alone.

Cut! Take Two!

2011-03-28T05:49:00.000-07:00

When I have a daily plan mapped out in my mind I tend to be a bit anal about it. I’ve made my list and I envision myself doing all the things included on my self-imposed itinerary. I hate it when right in the middle of my plan… a disruption occurs; life throws me a matzo ball, and I find myself having to revamp my entire day in order to accommodate life’s whims. Hmpf!!

A part of me wants to rage against the interruption, fist punching the air, while cursing at the imps of darkness for ganging up on me. The other part of me wants to glide through the transition process like Gandhi on a surfboard, riding the waves of change, glowing with serenity, and embracing the moment. Right! The only way that’s going to occur is if I happen to be leaving the Tike Bar… post happy hour…..but then I’ll probably look more like Gandhi ice-skating on a pond of Jell-O.

I don’t like my plans getting messed with, it brings out the angry Queen in me, and I want to shout “Off with their heads!” to anybody who would dare to stand in my way….okay I don’t actually want their heads chopped and tossed, but a good scare would cheer me up.

I know I have to learn to go with the flow better because life is all about surprises and unexpected turns. Just look at the weather. That teaches us, on a daily basis, about the unpredictability of life and how change is simply a part of the rhythm of things.

God’s critters seem to have no problem going with the flow…just look at the birds. Bird’s lives’ aren’t easy. Bird world can be hell sometimes! Their trees get chopped down, their nests get raided by all sorts of birdy pirates, they could get hit by a car… or catch the bird flu. But they do fine. They sing all day long, and hang out on wires, above humanity, laughing as we honk our horns, and scream into the sky because life isn’t flowing at our pace.

Sometimes, when things go really screwy, I’ll wonder if I’m on a hidden camera show, and I’ll behave myself so as to look good to my potential audience. (It’s amazing how well we can behave when we think somebody important is watching.) So maybe we have more control then we think we have….and all this raging is more of an indulgence than a necessity. Maybe I can fake it till I make it, and playacting for the “camera” will work in other areas of my life as well? The possibilities are endless…. “Cut! Take two!”

Daring to Dance

2011-03-24T07:40:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I’m amazed at how life participates in my life, placing all sorts of cosmic arrows on my path…. right on time, and helping to point me in the right direction. There is nothing more delightful than noticing these moments, and breaking into a knowing smile because you and the universe are sharing a private moment. You’re in sync with life and grateful for the attention.

The guardians of life are generous….and usually subtle. Ordinarily they won’t push through a closed door, but will listen through the door, and slip love notes under it, hoping to woo you in the right direction. I’m not saying that life isn’t capable of kicking down doors, I’m always running to the hardware store for door parts, but in the natural flow of things life likes to speak softly, and listening for that voice is part of learning how to live. Recognizing the tone, the inflections, and being able to distinguish the difference between the voice of your life and the voices of strangers.

Life sometimes speaks to me in themes, it’s so uncanny how life knows what is going on inside of little ole me, and the theme usually coincides with whatever lesson I happen to be learning at the time. If I’m learning to overcome fear then life will lovingly send me quotes, songs, and movies, which speak to me about courage, helping me to grasp the meaning of faith through the scattered clues. Like a child discovering something new, I gather the precious clues… looking, feeling, and tasting everything, until they become a part of me and work their magic, changing my mind and heart, and strengthening my drooping spirit like a well watered garden.

I guess my point this morning is that we are better equipped to live this life than we may think. And if we listen carefully we will see that we’re not alone, but are a part of the whole beautiful picture. Dancing with life takes practice. You must learn to follow, and then there’s all that spinning and dipping. But life is an expert dancer with perfect timing, and will whisk you off of your feet…..and steal your heart. Don’t deny yourself the pleasure of the dance simply because you’re afraid of the stage. Slip that rose between your teeth and tango!

Olly Olly in Come Free!

2011-03-20T08:17:00.000-07:00

Playing hide and seek as a kid I remember the shot of excitement…. and the needling fear that I felt, being “out there” cowering in the suspicious shadows of dusk ….and hearing the slappy footsteps of my opponent hitting the pavement hard, like applause, as I tried to remain invisible and silent.

Close calls inspired boldness, as I inched closer to the light pole that was “home base,” mocking the blindness of my opponent with my muted giggles, and grinning like a coyote into the darkness. I would wait out my seeker…for as long as it took; even if it meant standing knee deep in muck for hours.

Sick of hunting, the other kids would eventually give up on me and holler “Olly olly in come free!” At which point I’d swagger out, my face smug with supremacy, satisfied that I’d outsmarted them all, and mosey over to home base. Je suis le victor!

Childhood games are often a training ground for life’s lessons. There are times in life when you have to be patient to attain your goals. You have to wait life out, and not give up, even if you’re knee deep in the mire, and it seems like everyone is looking to defeat you. Don’t be afraid of the shadows because sometimes they provide a shelter for you, hiding you from things that you don’t see… or understand.

So if you’re hiding behind a tree, waiting for your chance to sprint to home base, but you can’t just yet because you’re surrounded by opponents….don’t be afraid… and don’t you dare give up, because sooner than you think, you’re going to hear “Olly olly in come free!” After which you will do the “I Kicked Ass” dance, and shine like a bauble in a bellybutton!

Choices. Red or Blue?

2011-03-17T08:12:00.000-07:00

How does one know what one really needs? I felt like I needed a lobotomy yesterday, but what I really needed was a good nap. What is the determining factor for knowing what is good for you? Is it head knowledge or heart tugs? How did Neo know what pill to take? Did he choose the red pill because he was wildly curious about the Matrix, or because he had a “feeling” that his destiny was tied to the Matrix?

We make choices every day. What to say, where to live, who to love. Each choice comes with consequences, which like a stone dropping into a lake will ripple through to the furthest shores of our lives, transforming our worlds, and the topography of our hearts.

Having confidence in ourselves is vital to making the right choices. You can’t stand in the middle of a busy intersection, confused, and scratching your chin, because you have four choices. You have to have fast reflexes, make your decision, and then move on. Life doesn’t always allow us a lot of time to make our choices, so it’s important to know yourself, have confidence in who you are, and make your choice from there. This doesn’t mean you’ll make the easiest choice, but chances are it will be the right choice for you…and your life.

Some people (like me) want life presented to them in a pretty way, wrapped up in tissue paper with silk ribbons, by a handsome currier in tight jeans and a muscle shirt. But life is often delivered by a guy in a guerilla suite, dumping a brown paper sack, spotted with suspicious stains and an odd odor to it, onto your lap. You sit stunned, your jaw unhinged, as you pinch finger the bag open so you can get a peek at what’s in there. God is a lot like Monty Hall.

Sometimes I wish I were equipped with a GPS system. “You are about to drive your life into a ditch, please turn around and head east.” I would love to have a pleasant voice telling me, how far to go, what exit to take, and to notify me when I get there. I’ve overshot some important exits in life, and I’ve peed in the woods more times than I’d like to admit because I wasn’t watching for the Rest Area signs. A GPS sure would come in handy when I’m lost too. (I seem to be getting lost a lot lately.)

But life is messy, raw, and full of surprises. There is no GPS system …… or handsome currier. There will be no pampering or choices for alternate endings. Body doubles will not perform your stunts and you’re not always going to like the script. So, I guess your best bet when making a choice is to do your homework, trust your gut, and wear your lucky green tee shirt.

Bruised Bamboo, a little help.

2011-03-14T08:39:00.000-07:00

The suffering and despair of Japan’s people is incomprehensible to me. I watch as their desperate images appear on my TV screen, slotted between ads for Pop-Tarts and toothpaste, like a tragic prime time series. The imagines are too much too take in. I want to look away. Thousands of people’s lives have been broken to bits, their pieces cast to the wind. I shift on my sofa, seeking a more comfortable position. But there is no comfort, because my brothers and sisters are suffering. I continue to watch…. and sink into a hole of despair, where hope seems impossible. and loss the victor.

I begin to fear for myself and my family. Living at sea level in Florida, where an earthquake in another remote part of the world could trigger a tsunami and it could be us on TV, or the West Coast, or any other part of the world. I want to run and hide....go somewhere safe from calamity. But there is no safe place.....and Japan is devastated.

I force myself to feel the snake of despair that has curled up inside of me: depression, fear, grief, helplessness. I see an old Japanese woman shivering under a dirty blanket. Her face is twisted with sorrow as she stands alone….and I want to comfort her. I want to hold her and weep with her for her losses……take her home with me. But I’m here, and she is oh so far away.

I learned a long time ago that hopelessness is contagious. Letting despair and fear overtake me, disarms me, making me part of the problem rather than a key to the solution. So, as I sat on my sofa, choking back tears, I whispered a prayer for the people of Japan. It wasn’t an eloquent prayer, and I’m not even sure that my words made any sense. But it was a cry from the heart; a plea for help, and restitution, and I believe it helped.

The only other thing I know to do (other than sending them money; which is the first thing to do,) is to be willing to carry their terrified faces with me as I go through my refreshingly ordinary day, and let myself feel the bite of their sufferings. That is the only help I have left to offer. Sorrow inspires empathy and empathy inspires action. We are God’s hands reaching out to our brothers and sisters in Japan. They are a part of us..... no…..they are us.

Sundays, Bandwagons, and Beaches

2011-03-13T07:36:00.000-07:00

As a kid I used to hate Sundays. It meant wearing stuffy clothes, sitting in a boring pew and listening to guy dressed in…well, a dress, ramble on (in Latin) while peering down at me like he knew every bit of mischief I’d been up to.

Being a kid and learning about God is akin to being a teenager and learning about love. You’ve got your preconceived notions, the stuff your parents and the church tell you, and then you have reality. I collected information on God mostly from my mother and catechism. Catechism is the catholic version of Sunday school, but it’s also a prerequisite for communion and confirmation, and you get tons of credit from God for going.

By the time I was fourteen I was completely confused about the God rules: what with menial and mortal sins, hell and purgatory, eating meat or not, all my protestant friends going to hell, so I kind of chucked it all and set out to find out the truth for myself, al la Leah.

Being the passionate soul that I am I found myself jumping on and off bandwagons more than a circus performer. I still have some bruises from the jumping off part. But after a lifetime of searching, and trying on different spiritual robes, I find that I have kind of come full circle and back to a bunch of basics….minus all the church accessories.

I believe that I am my church which conveniently lets me off the hook from having to actually leave my house and attend one. I am a temple, built in the image of God, living and breathing, being his available hands, and voice, on this troubled planet. I may speak with the tongues of a fallen species, but I also, through many a trial, have learned the language of love and compassion which guides my motives and usually keeps me spiritually healthy. I say usually because I don’t always do the right thing. That would make me perfect and perfect doesn’t exist for anyone.

So, now I love my Sundays. They are completely free and open, allowing me to flow with the moment. Today I am taking my church to the beach where I intend to soak up the sun, relax with my family, and take in the splendor of God’s creation. Did I mention that there are some fine Adams at the beach …hehe. Hey! Remember…I am perfectly imperfect!

Art provided by Fran Murphy

Living With Clumps!

2011-03-10T12:19:00.000-08:00

Sometimes life can rub you the wrong way. Like petting a cat from tail to head…it just doesn’t feel good. The cat will let you know if you’re annoying it by answering with a growl and a slash, but what’s a person to do when life gets tough. How many frustrating things can happen in a day? Rhetorical question, but it seems when one thing turns blotchy and sour, it can spread to other things. In short, I believe that sometimes crap comes in clumps. All you have to do is listen to any country western song to see proof of my theory….crops failed, wife left, dog died...clumps!

The other morning a friend of mine stopped in to pick something up. I greeted her with a brief “how are ya?” as I continued with my frenzy to get ready for work. After a while I noticed she hadn’t really answered me. Looking up I saw that she was standing in the middle of my kitchen with her eyes pooled with tears and her bottom lip quivering. I stopped my tornadic activities and gently approached her, asking .....“what’s wrong?”

Through sniffles and waterfalls I learned that after a week from hell (clumping usually hits when you’re emotionally shot) she learned that her septic system was malfunctioning, her refrigerator had died, and all three of her kids had pink eye. I watched a woman who is normally indomitable, and gutsy, melt into a puddle right before my watery eyes. Clumps!

I knew she needed a shoulder to cry on so I poured us some coffee, pulled up a chair, and listened attentively as she purged her soul. Sometimes all we need is someone to be a witness to the unfairness of what’s happening, and the absurdity of it all. Sure enough, within ten minutes of purging she was hoisting her super-sized pocketbook back onto her able shoulder and heading out the door, dry eyed, and confident. She had dumped her clump. I, on the other hand was hoping that her clump wasn’t catchy.

To be fair, I’ll mention that I also have a theory on good clumping. That’s when a bunch of nice things happen in a row. It’s not as popular to talk about as bad clumping, and not many country songs have been written about it, but I know it happens because I’ve had a few “good” clumping sprees already this year.

Perhaps we don’t talk about good clumping as much because we don’t want to jinx ourselves or sound as though we’re bragging. Calamity has a way of bringing people together, side by side, in the same leaking boat, but good luck momentarily sets one apart, causing them to sparkle and celebrate. Some of the people in the boat become inspired at your victory, and gain the strength they need until their “good” clump comes along, but others twitch and curse, because they believe it should have been them…. and NOT YOU! They complain and poison everyone within listening distance. It eventually backfires on them though because I also believe that the more you complain the more crappy clumps you get…. and the longest boat ride.

Completely Naked

2011-03-03T05:31:00.000-08:00

You are standing naked at the edge of a cool river, on a moonlit summer’s night, and dipping a hesitant toe into the chilly bath. Little by little you immerse yourself into the waiting flow until you are weightless, moving rhythmically with the current, your legs kicking through the silky atmosphere, arms pushing and slicing, saturating every part of you, until you are one with the river, baptized and immersed into something much bigger than yourself, and you are free.

Sounds so romantic, but giving ourselves over to something bigger than we are isn’t always so private, or refreshing. Unfortunately life is bigger than us. It’s bigger than us on nearly every level; except for maybe when everything is going along in a predictable manner, and then we somehow fool ourselves into thinking that we are bigger than life. Those moments never last long enough.

Every now and then I have this same dream. I dream that I forgot to put my clothes on and I’m at a public event, spy walking from tree to tree, trying to hide because I am naked….and oh so vulnerable. I wake up relieved that it was just a silly dream, and wonder at the meaning of it.

Well, that’s how life is sometimes. It leaves us naked and exposed… and running for cover. You see there’s a tender spot at the center of our being that is vulnerable and naked all the time. It’s a beautiful spot, but usually going through some sort of transformation, or adjustment. It’s our “me” spot, the core of who we are, and who we are becoming. We show it to people on our terms, in our time, and when we feel it’s appropriate…and safe. But, sometimes we become overly protective of ourselves and unwilling to share who we really are with others. This is usually when life intervenes and points its big neon finger at our “me” spots, causing everyone to stop and see our somewhat awkward, but beautiful nakedness.

There are probably a gazillion ways to feel naked to the world and life knows them all.
But that moment of nakedness changes things as we scramble to process our emotions and adjust to the change. We may get angry, or laugh, or cry, but there’s always a reaction and an adjustment period, which results in us learning something about ourselves or those around us. Of course there are usually a few witnesses around to watch the entire process, and it’s at that point that I wonder if I should simply hug them, or shoot them.

Eating life raw can be extremely messy, but oh so delicious, once you embrace your nakedness.

The Itsy Bitsy Vacation

2011-02-28T05:42:00.000-08:00

Mike and I are back from a much needed vacation, and although it went by far too quickly, I was amazed at how much fun we could squeeze into four little days. I’d say the absolute best part of the trip was seeing my in-laws. (No, I’m not joking.) We hung out at their place chatting, went out to eat, and even caught the final launching of the Space Shuttle Discovery right from their front lawn. Okay, we could only see its jet stream, but it was still very cool.

Mike’s dad has a knack for knowing the “in” places to go, so he steered us to a little place called The Old Key Lime House in Lantana Florida, just outside of Palm Beach, where they are rumored to have the best key lime pie in the state. Well, after a yummy lunch we ordered a slice of their famous pie with four forks……. BIG MISTAKE! After one bite I was hooked and ready to use my desert fork to stab any incoming hands. They should have named it key lime heroin pie because it was totally addictive!

That night we buzzed over to Bill and Charlie’s condo overlooking the ocean. They agreed to put us up for the weekend and even gave us their master suite. Their place was gorgeous, decorated in an Egyptian motif so luxurious that Cleopatra would have felt every bit of her queenliness living there. I could have done without the stuffed tarantula mounted on the bedroom hallway wall (just walking past it gave me the heebie jeebies) but I’d been meaning to work on my arachnophobia issues anyway.

The next day we swung by and kidnapped my recluse cousin, TJ, and then headed to the casino. We’re not big gamblers, unless you count using the rhythm method those ten years before my hysterectomy, but we had put aside a small budget just for gambling figuring we’d lose it all any way. Okay, I was hoping to hit the big one, but I wasn’t saying it out loud for fear of jinxing myself. In hindsight I can see that that theory doesn’t work. We gambled until Mike’s back started kinking, and cousin TJ’s gimpy hip gave out.

That evening we were invited to Italian night at Bill and Charlie’s condo. We were served a six course Italian dinner which consisted of pasta & sauce, stuffed pasta, spicy pasta, chicken with pasta, pasta balls and pasta salad. After the carb loading came the dancing part of the evening, and the music was …..Are you ready?........Italian! So, there was a lot of folk dancing going on with hand holding, skipping in circles, and at one point I was forced to crouch down Quasimodo style and dance under an archway of arms. While pushing through the fleshy tunnel, the old man behind me started scratching at the bare skin on my back just above the beltline of my jeans. My creep-o-meter registered at about 10.5.

Mike went home shortly thereafter, leaving me to fend for myself. I did enjoy a few dances with some of the feisty foreigners there. One gentleman was as round as he was high (about 5 ft nothing and didn’t speak a word of English) but he was light on his feet and had a gorgeous smile. Then Charlie and I showed off for a while on the dance floor doing a mix of dirty dancing and classic ballroom, complete with hot angry looks (tango style). I live for moments like that!

Saturday morning I woke up with “Bed Face.” That’s when the wrinkles in the bedding become embossed on your face. I looked like I had a terrible scar going down the entire right side of my cheek. It was ragged and red…..and looked a little like the bolt of lightning that runs across Harry Potter’s forehead. When I was young Bed Face would go away after about ten minutes, but the older I get the longer it takes to go away. Saturday’s Bed Face lasted 5 hours…ARG!! Luckily I didn’t have any public appearances planned and was able to practically ignore the whole ugly incident.

So Sunday we returned home and resumed dealing with all the big stuff that earns us the right to take our little vacations. In the morning we went to the beach, had lunch at our favorite restaurant, and then we visited some friends before coming back home to watch a movie. It’s not easy getting back into the daily grind of Florida living, but I suppose we can hack it until we shuffle off to Miami next weekend for a wedding.

Vacation Anxiety...Really???

2011-02-23T07:30:00.000-08:00

My husband Mike and I are about to head out on a much deserved two day vacation. Okay, maybe it’s just a staycation, seeing that we’re not going far, but being in Florida…in February, makes even a staycation something special. We’re heading across the state to Fort Lauderdale, where white sandy beaches, interesting restaurants, and friends and family are awaiting us.

It’s been a while since we’ve gone away and I have a shopping list of activities planned, including a trip to the Hard Rock, and a night of romantic dancing. Getting away from my normal routine is going to be so rejuvenating….and a bit unnerving. I know, silly me, but being a creature of habit, and somewhat of a control freak, leaving the predictable, and mundane, cradle of my existence for the wide open world, where anything can happen, has set my nerves on edge a bit. I guess it’s like getting the jitters on an airplane, or right before the wedding. You know what? This little talk really isn’t helping so let’s move on here.

My son has agreed to dog watch for us, and although I know he’s perfectly capable, a part of me is a tad worried…okay I’m kind of freaking out. He’s great with my 4 lb Chihuahua, really, but he is a bit clumsy….. why do I do this to myself?

It's just that I can’t help it if I’m overly protective about my dog. I guess I’ve bonded with her in ways that I haven’t with my kids. For one thing I obviously didn’t give birth to her so I carry no guilt for her genetic weaknesses; like the kink in her tail, or her overbite. Plus, she never argues with me, or asks me for money, and I have never had to apologize to her for the way I raised her. She loves me just as I am and all I have to do is keep her food and water bowls filled and show her some affection. I need my dog around to worship me unconditionally. You know I never thought I’d be the type to get stupid over a pocket puppy, but there it is.

In spite of everything I really am excited about getting away, and chilling on the beach with a good book and a cold drink. I should buy a new bathing suit though because mine is awful. Actually, it’s not the bathing suit so much as it is my dimpling thighs and Elmer’s Glue pallor. I wish they designed bathing suits with built in panty hose. This staycation thing isn’t as pretty as it appears on the surface. Pray for me…I’m heading out!

Me & the Moon

2011-02-20T07:43:00.000-08:00

Have you seen the moon lately? That luminous sphere who reflects the sun’s light; for he hasn’t a light of his own. The moon; whose presence inspires howling and kisses, floods and poetry; gazing silently earthward, spotlighting our deeds and dreams, keeping our secrets, making no judgments.

Twirling, yet going no where, he is chained to his course; a muted witness whose face pales as our silent tears fall, and blushes pink with desire as lovers fold into each other’s arms, naked and one, in his milky light.

Sometimes I feel like it’s just me and the moon.

Juggling Knives

2011-02-17T07:42:00.001-08:00

Sometimes I feel as though I’m juggling knives and I’m about to drop everything. I know myself pretty well and I can tell when something is out of balance. Life gives me cues. Like when my favorite jeans are too tight I know that it’s time to cut down on the cupcakes. When I’m snappy, I know that it’s a sign that I’m afraid of something, and when I’m forgetful, I know that I have too much on my mind.

Sometimes good things can throw me off balance too; like when I’m writing a piece that excites me more than usual I tend to write it in my head throughout my busy day. It may sound like a creative thing to be doing, but sometimes it takes me away from concentrating on what is in front of me. The results can be disastrous, like adding an extra zero when I’m writing a check, or embarrassing, like telling the cable guy that I love him when ending our phone call. “Bye bye, love ya!”
FOCUS LEAH!

Lately, (like for the last three years) I’ve been getting signals to slow down and take some time for myself. I know, three years is a long time, but I’m a slow study, and sometimes I need life to bite me in the butt before I act. For some reason I feel that my world, and the people in it, will fall apart if I’m not there to hold everything together. But…that’s a big fat self-centered lie! So, I’m taking off my martyr robes and I’m creating a plan on how to take better care of myself… on an everyday basis.

I know myself pretty well, and I’m a sneaking little soul who will find all kinds of ways to hold onto my bad habits, so I’m going to have to outwit myself by doing things that I enjoy doing. Fun homework! Here’s what I came up with.

Taking a long bath is a great way for me to catch my breath and find balance. For one thing, I’m stuck in the tub… and naked, so the distractions are pretty limited. The hot bath water sedates me…allowing the stress to escape from my pores and rise, along with the steam, above me and then evaporate like a forgotten bad dream. Cell phones are not allowed tub-side, but candles and music are encouraged.

Walking is another free and healthy way to find balance. It awakens me to the world outside. You remember outside…endless sky, brilliant sun, and a choir of colorful birds singing acapella from the trees? Outside is such an incredible place to be, yet I often ignore it, choosing to sit in a dusty house, with artificial lighting, and dirty dishes that scream “WASH ME” from the kitchen sink. Yes, dishes can talk. My laundry yells at me as well.

Music is my muse. I can always find my way free from the chains of stress when I’m in her company. Whether in my car, my house, or out at a club, music lifts me like no other, inspiring twirly dances, and hip shaking shimmies. The band King Harvest stated it best in their early 70’s hit, Dancin’ in the Moonlight. They sing, “You can’t dance and stay uptight…It’s a supernatural delight!” So I intend to turn up the music and dance hard, and more often. It’s also a good way for me to drop a few pounds.

I guess what I’m rambling on and on about today is how to stay present, centered, and balanced in a very unbalanced world. My life is like my yard. It’s my little plot of land to tend to. Let the neighborhood go to pot, but my yard will have roses, pebbled paths, and fountains! Of course I’m speaking metaphorically. My yard is actually full of weeds…but you know what I mean!

Cranky Cherubs

2011-02-12T13:49:00.000-08:00

Valentines Day isn’t always what it’s cracked up to be. Sometimes I think it’s just a big set up for disappointment. I remember, as a child, passing out my hand signed Pepe Le Pew valentines, and saving the mushiest one for my eternal crush, Steven Sweet. Seriously, that was his last name. I may have been only eight, but even then I wasn’t immune to Cupids arrows. Much to my dismay, my love remained unrequited because Steven Sweet had set his sites on the prettiest girl in class….and it wasn’t me.

I repeated this heart numbing ritual year after year because Mr. Sweet and I were in the same class up until Jr. High. You’d think that I would have learned? But, love is love, and Cupid is often a mischievous and cranky little cherub. Don’t let those dimples and chubby cheeks fool you!

Being single… (Or married to an old fart) during this holiday is sometimes lonely, but mostly annoying. You listen to your friends gush as they read you their syrupy Hallmark cards and brag about the rose petal path that they had to follow in order to reach the chocolate, bubble bath, and chilled champagne. (Men will do anything for sex.) You do a mental eye roll and sigh; looking for the closest exit, because you know what’s coming next…a litany of sympathy aimed your way. “Oh! I’m sorry. I forgot you don’t have a boyfriend,” or “Oh, that’s right, your husband doesn’t like to celebrate Valentines Day.” You mumble a sarcastic “thanks for the reminder,” and a few expletives under your breath, and then walk away, all the while wishing that it were open season on saps.

You can’t blame the romantics for gushing, even if some are insincere, but you also needn’t feel left out, because Valentines Day isn’t just for lovers. It’s for everyone with a heart. Valentines Day is a celebration of love. The love you have for family, friends, yourself, pets, life…..EVERYTHING! Love is an eternal and amazing force. Its power changes hearts and lives, and inspires people to do great things! We are all thirsty for love on every level. This Valentines Day don’t miss out. Take a huge swig of love and then pass the bottle on. We all deserve it.

Viva la amor!